


The Nomad

by irishgirl321



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Bounty Hunters, Canon Compliant, Chaotic Neutral MC, Childhood Trauma, Companionable Snark, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Embellished Canon, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Established Star Wars Character as Parent, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Familial Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Imperial Remnant (Star Wars), Morally Grey Reader, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishgirl321/pseuds/irishgirl321
Summary: “And now,” the Client continues, “we will get to the true purpose of your visit.” He pauses momentarily, though you cannot force your head to raise to see why. “Take the girl out of here.”There is a shuffle as the Stormtroopers around you move to obey. The world tilts backwards as the chair is dragged from the room, with you still seated in it. As weak as a newborn, you can’t even stop the useless drag of your feet across the ground. There’s a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. With your mind so addled, the pain radiating through every area of your body is barely noticeable.As your head lolls back, your unfocused eyes register the Mandalorian once more. Seated at the table, his head mostly faces the Client. But, there is an almost unperceivable turn towards you. Once again, you can feel that intense gaze behind the visor.Wheezing, hatred surges as you bid him a final goodbye. “Rot in hell, Mandalorian.”(Din Djarin x Female!Reader)To avoid spoilers, tags will be updated as the story progresses.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 273
Kudos: 488





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone... Despite all the other works I need to update, I couldn't help myself at all.
> 
> Din Djarin is my latest obsession. He is the first character who I have truly adored in a long while. And so... There was no other option. I couldn't get this out of my head until I wrote something down.
> 
> The atmosphere for this chapter was created with the help of the below song(s):  
> The Plan - Travis Scott.
> 
> Also a quick note: While I have tried to make Nomad as race-neutral in writing as I can, it is only fair to say that I have her father in mind as an established character in the Star Wars universe. This means that he is of a specific race/skin colour. I do want everyone to be able to read these stories and see themselves, and so I have done some research into the wider universe. While it is not mentioned in this chapter I have decided to make Nomad biologically half-human. Her maternal side is another race (almost identical to humans but with slight differences that I will get into later) from the Unknown Realms. I managed to find a planet and humanoid species that there was not a whole lot of information on, so that I could construct this angle how I wanted it.
> 
> The idea is that this specific race is the dominant genotype when compared to human genotyping. Due to this, in appearance Nomad looks like her maternal line from this planet, with very little of her father's outward attributes present in her physical characteristics. I know that human DNA can still mix in surprising ways, but I felt that it would have been a little lazy of me to just say that, so I wanted to put some effort into crafting a believable reason why Nomad looks so different from her father that is hopefully satisfactory.

_Nevarro is a shithole._

A stinking wasteland of sand and misery. If you had the choice, you’d have never returned after the first visit. Unfortunately, this was not a possibility. Being the seat of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild and therefore a place where you could pass unnoticed between the other shadowy fugitives of the galactic authorities, it was the prime spot to earn some credits. And stars above, you really needed them right now. If only to afford a Bacta spray. 

With some effort, you managed to keep your stance firm as you navigated the crowded streets. The stinging in your side was an incessant agony that pulsated with every movement. By nature, Stormtroopers were meant to have incredibly bad aim, and yet one of the fuckers had managed to get you right in the side of your stomach. The shot was a fluke, a freak accident of nature, but one that you could have done without. It had been hours, and you could still feel blood soaking the bandages wound across your waist. Exhaustion clouded your mind, but there was no time to rest.

Eyes fixed in the distance, you determinedly kept to your path. While disgusting, the streets of Nevarro were also familiar. At a time like this, that was a comfort. The place had unsettled you in the past. Making your way through packs of hardened killers would be daunting to anyone.

When you had first come to place, it seemed every set of their eyes had been upon you, trying to work out the shape of your face underneath the black mask that obscured your nose and mouth. It had incited some low panic, a paranoia that someone would look at you and just _know_ who you were. But no one ever did. All they saw now was the Nomad. A bounty hunter who always kept half her face hidden.

Over time, you’d grown used to the stares. Those calculating gazes no longer bother you. Almost everyone here has some sort of bounty on their heads. It’s mostly ignored, a consequence of the job. Unless it is particularly high, no one pays any heed. Going after another hunter can be more trouble than the credits are worth. Although, you can say with confidence that all would be swayed by your price. 

That’s not a boast. Just how it is. A defected Imperial assassin would draw a large sum from any side, even if their family did not hold the same status as yours.

Your charge sheet is almost as impressive as the price attached to your head. Depending on which side you ask, it would be an interesting cocktail of grand larceny, pirating, treason, and murder. Not to mention regicide. Which also doubled as fratricide.

Although, fratricide doesn’t count as a chargeable crime. Instead, it’s just chalked up to regular murder. Or so you think. It’s been a while since you’ve updated yourself on the law. Not that it would hold any value to you regardless. _But that's off topic._

At the end of the street lies your destination. The cantina. Shadows move within, the silhouettes of patrons visible at a distance. Some laughter rings out too, alongside merry shouts. It’s filled to the brim with some of the galaxy’s worst criminals, and yet all obey a single strict rule. No fighting inside or around the tavern. It’s a place of business, of honour to the Guild. That’s something everyone can respect.

After a quick glance either side, you go to cross the street. A carriage suddenly appears out of nowhere, and you have to lunge to the side to avoid being run over. Your wound screams in protest at the sudden movement. The driver yells at you from behind a blockade of sacks as he continues onward, gesturing angrily. His expression blanches as soon as he takes in your attire. Very few ordinary folk would wear so much steel and leather. Coupled with the serrated steel attached to your bracers, your profession is immediately apparent to anyone who is playing attention. But this man was not, and now it’s too late for his apology. 

Your hand is already snatching a shuriken from your belt. In one smooth motion, you send it spinning. With a cry of alarm, the cart driver ducks. Not meant for him at all, the pronged star instead buries itself in the centre of the sack closest to the cart’s rear. A jagged line splits the fabric, and then grain is spilling out in a steady line onto the dirt. His cry of dismay is music to your frayed nerves, but he does not stop to fix the problem. Probably afraid that you'll throw another at his head if he tries.

You arrive at the cantina feeling confident that there will be no other incidents. One foot extends to step over the threshold. At that exact moment, a shape looms within the doorframe. You collide heavily with the figure. _And stars, it hurts._ The hard impact draws a wave of pain from the burn wound in your side. Air rushes from your lungs through gritted teeth. It takes all your willpower not to cry out audibly.

“Watch yourself.” A curt voice commands.

“Fuck off,” is your strained reply.

_Nevarro is a shithole, and you fucking hate it and everyone in it._

Your hand is clamped against your side in a useless bid to quash the agony. There’s no stopping the tears that threaten to well in your eyes. Seething, you raise a narrowed gaze to the man blocking your path. Surprise flickers over when you find metal instead of flesh. A silver helmet in place of a face.

It’s a Mandalorian. You’ve seen them here before in passing, but always made an effort to keep your distance. Their kind are known for their skill in combat. It's something that you witnessed first hand, so many years ago, and you know to be hesitant. Caution dictates you should avoid conflict with one unless there is no other option. You would need to be a total moron to unnecessarily draw their attention. 

However, here you are, standing before him, having just cussed at him in the most aggressive tone that you could manage. What’s worse is that it’s not all out of your system just yet.

That grey helmet tilts. Even with his eyes obscured, the weight of his scrutiny falls heavy upon your face. Knowing better than to appear weak or cowed, you force your arms to cross over your chest. The motion brings another stabbing sensation in your side.

“What did you say?” His low rasp holds a tinge of danger.

“Didn’t catch it the first time?” You ask with a snarl. “Is the helmet too dense?”

Down at his sides, gloved hands tighten into fists. “I’d be very careful about what you say next.”

“Or what?” A scoff leaves your lips. “You’re going to punch me? Here? We both know that fighting isn’t allowed in the cantina’s vicinity. Bad for business.”

That’s correct. He knows it. All the same, his cold anger is palpable. You can feel it in the air, warring against the churning heat of your own charged emotions. Tension prickles over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Part of you is just aching to clobber him over the head. The other just wants to collapse into a heap and cry.

There is a metallic creak as the Mandalorian leans forward. Unable to stop yourself, you shift away. The wall immediately pressing against your back halts any possible retreat. His arms raise, each hand landing just above your shoulder, off to the side of your face. His cuirass-covered chest closes the gap between your bodies. Locked in place, there is nothing else to do but stare defiantly into the spot of his dark visor where his eyes would be. 

Any snarky one-liner now completely eludes your flailing mind. There’s a lump in your throat. It’s hard to think of anything past the pain, anger, fear…

When he speaks again, his words are a barely audible threat. “Don’t cross my path again. That’s a warning.”

A shiver runs down your spine. 

“And what happens if I do?” The challenge leaves your mouth in a sneer.

There is one final, rough growl. “You don’t want to know.”

And then he’s gone. Before your mind even had time to conjure its next retort. There is one last snap of the tail of his gray cloak as he disappears around the corner of the building. Relief and disappointment war confusingly as a rush of cold air floods your lungs. Your chest heaves, suddenly able to draw breath now that the Mandalorian isn’t clouding your space. The stinging on your side returns. For just a moment, you had forgotten the damn blaster wound.

Curious for one last look, you peer down the alley that the Mandalorian vanished into. There is no one there. It’s not like he vanished, more than enough time has passed for him to turn the corner. But with that stretch of seconds, some of the clouded anger has dissipated and the reality of the encounter starts to sink in. _Fuck._ You may need to be more careful when roaming these streets in the future. The Mandalorian is still in Nevarro, and it’s not a big city. Maybe you shouldn’t have all gone all snarky on him. In any case, there is nothing to be done for it now. 

The ache in your side draws your back to reality. Attempting to suppress a groan, you carefully step through the entrance to the cantina at long last. It’s busy on the inside, more crowded than usual. A strange energy tinges the air, a buzz of excitement that seems greater than usual. A larger bounty. It must be. And there’s only one man to talk to about such a deal. You know exactly where to find him.

Greef Karga is seated in his usual booth. A half empty glass lies on the table before him, and his fingers run thoughtfully around the brim. The throng of patrons shifts like the tide as you slip through. As you lay a hand on a man’s back to urge him to make way for your passage, it leaves a bloody imprint on his shirt. Quickly, you wipe your palm along the inside of your cloak. The darkened green fabric hides the blood well, but know you are sure that you need supplies, and need them soon. With no other choice, you need to complete a job.

A large grin lights Karga’s features as you slide into the seat opposite. Despite his welcoming expression, you are not naive enough to fool yourself into thinking he considers you a friend. Greef Karga likes anyone who can earn him some credits, and you have provided a large splatter of income over the years. Not always steady, but enough to bolster his excitement upon noting your familiar figure.

“Greef. How are you?” Your voice is steady, betraying nothing of your quavering hands pressed underneath the table.

“Ah. Nomad, darling. I'm very well,” he chuckles, lifting the glass to his lips to take a sip of the amber liquid inside. “All the better that you’re here now. I didn’t expect to see you for another few months, but then… Your arrivals are always unpredictable. But the surprise only makes it so much more delightful.”

“Charming as always,” you retort wryly. “I appreciate the kind words, but would we be able to progress topics? I am keen to discuss business.”

His brow arches. “So soon?”

Usually, you play his game for a little while. Indulge some compliments _here,_ laugh at a joke _there_ … The usual things that never fail to stroke a man’s ego. However, it will not do this time around. The damp patch growing at your waist cannot afford any delays.

“Unfortunately I’m in a bit of a tight spot,” you reply, not willing to give too much away. “Credits have become something of a priority.”

“Oh no. Not in any big trouble, are we?”

A sardonic laugh catches in your throat. _If only he knew…_ But if he did, every blaster in the room would be levelled at your face. No, Greef Karga is not to be trusted. Especially when there’s a fortune involved.

“Not at all,” you tell him sweetly.

He doesn’t answer for a few moments, hopefully that his silence will prompt you into sharing. That may work on novices, but you are far beyond an average rookie. Eventually, Karga relents. A loud sigh leaves his chest, as if you’re ruining his fun. 

“Fine. Have it your way.”

Several pucks clatter onto the table. One almost rolls off the edge. Your fist shoots out, catching it neatly before placing it back with the rest. As soon as they are all gathered, the holos flicker to life. As you scan each one, something is instantly obvious. The pay is piss poor. 

For a moment, you have to wonder if your rush to get to business offended Karga, causing him to only offer you the lower level jobs. When your eyes raise to him, he just shrugs.

“I know it’s not much. Business is slow.”

“Is this really all you have?” Incredulity is evident in your tone. “A couple of bail jumpers, a missing nobleman… Not even a smuggling contract?”

“Unfortunately not,” he replies. “Things have taken a quiet turn, as they are always bound to eventually.”

These offers… They’re barely enough to buy bandages, let alone antibiotics. Seems unrealistic, but things are more expensive in the middle of nowhere. Supply and demand, and all those other economic aspects coming into play... Regardless, a bacta spray is completely out of the question. It’s hard to fight the panic slowly rising in your chest. There’s nothing of use on the ship that you stole to get back to Nevarro, and you don’t have any credits for medical supplies. No way can you go to a medical centre either. They need identification for that, and while your fake may work upon passing officials on the streets, you do not want to risk it in a New Republic facility.

Apprehension is thick in your throat. As your palms grow damp with stress, you slump back against the seat. One hand raises to take hold of your necklace, fingers sliding along the sides of the red crystal. It’s a comfort motion, one you are barely aware of anymore. However, now it brings a surge of white hot pain at your waist. 

This time, the Guild Master does not miss your wince. Luckily, he seems to mistake it for disappointment. His head turns as he glances around, checking for listening ears before leaning closer. Hope blossoms in your chest as you shift to meet him, ignoring the hot trickle of blood that you feel oozing from the side of your body.

“There is one other,” Karga murmurs softly. “It’s underground. Secret. High reward. You’ll need to meet with the client directly, and proceed from there.”

Desperation is plain on your face as you immediately answer. “Tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed! The support is always so appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will warn you... Don't get used to this upload speed! I am just keen to get the story going. :) Also it's like 2:30am and I have had enough wine to buzz me into shamelessly seeking validation. (Hey, at least I'm honest!)
> 
> All jokes aside...
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who has taken the time to leave kudos and words of encouragement. It really does help with keeping the motivation trickling in. Certainly made starting to write this chapter today easier! Although... Poor Nomad. She's really not having a good time. I really do feel awful for what I'm about to put her through.
> 
> The atmosphere for this chapter was created with the help of the below song(s). Have a listen while you read, if you want:  
> We Carry On - The Phantoms  
> Iron - Woodkid

There are no outwards marks or insignias on the exterior of the building. No warning, nothing at all to hint at _who_ or _what_ lies inside. Not that one had been expected. Karga did say that this was underground. There would be no banner stretched across the doorframe to advertise whatever illegal operation was running in the confines of those walls. 

New Republic officers tended to stop on Nevarro for routine checks every so often. It was best not to draw their attention. You knew that better than anyone. That was partly why the ship you had stolen from Kessel was parked quite a distance away from the town, hidden beneath the craggy dunes of the desert. It had taken considerable fortitude to limp back here on foot, especially with the injury sapping away your strength, but it was better than being caught on a stolen vehicle. Especially one that had been in active use by remaining branches of the Empire.

The bloodflow trickling from your side has lessened. At least that is something. All the same, every now and then a stray droplet still tumbles from the fabric of your shirt to splatter across the dirt streets. Everything aches, but you cannot stop now. There’s nowhere on this planet that you can go for help. Nowhere in the galaxy, really. It’s up to you to take care of yourself. That’s how it’s always been, ever since Papa was killed.

Suddenly, an odd sensation runs down your back. It’s a familiar feeling, and one that fills your chest with foreboding. Goosebumps prickle along your forearm. _Someone is watching you._

Without even thinking, you yank the blaster free from the holster upon your waist. The safety clicks off. Your eyes scan the length of the side street. _Clear._ Nothing on the roofs either. Years of uncertainty make it hard to simply drop your guard once the search yields nought but quiet. A few more tense moments tick by. There is still no motion. Just you, standing alone on this empty side street. Eventually, your shoulders slope into a more relaxed pose once more. The gun slips back into the sheath, but the safety stays switched off. Just in case.

That uncomfortable sensation of eyes upon your body is gone, but a lingering unease remains. Sure, it could have been your imagination. Exhaustion and paranoia can play tricks on the mind. It wouldn’t be the first time that it’s happened. But something just feels… Off. Maybe it’s the injury. Never before had you taken a bounty while wounded. You're well aware that it's not the smartest move, however, desperate times call for chance actions.

Just take it one step at a time. Get inside to meet with the client. Once you get the job spec, you can get out of this damn town. Heck, maybe he'll give you enough of an advance to buy some medical supplies. As the thought crosses your mind, another drop of blood splashes onto the ground at your feet. Quickly, you scuff your boot over the spot. Tracking your gaze back up the street, your eyes immediately narrow in on three more small spots of red. They are spaced out, a few metres apart from one another, but indeniably belong to you. Leading around the way you came, they disappear into out of view.

 _Fan-fucking-tastic._ This trail would have led Hansel and Gretel out of the woods in no time. Might as well simply draw an arrow in the dirt pointing directly to yourself. Who knows how far back this treks behind? There’s no other option but to get in and out of here as quickly as possible.

Your knuckles rap against the thin metal of the door. A scanner pops out from the small camera off to the side almost immediately. With a loud beep, it demands to see identification. Digging your hands into your pocket, your fingers close around the hard plastic of your Guild Card. Red light flickers as the code is scanned. This part is always nerve-wracking. The card only holds your name and guild rates, but there is always the tiniest fear that somehow it will just know who you truly are.

The light blinks green. Relief floods your chest. There is a hiss as the door slides open, and the skin at the back of your neck prickles in warning. You are too slow to react. The barrel of a gun slams into your face, and your nose explodes in a spurt of agony.

A cry of shock and outrage leaves your lips as you stagger backwards. Through watering eyes, a flash of white surges toward you. Instantly, you recognise the uniform. _Stormtrooper._ One gloved hand extends for your throat. You barely manage to duck. Dirt kicks up underfoot as you go to run, to tear away from this place. His fingers snag the hem of your cloak. It yanks taut, choking you. Using all available strength, you twist sharply. His hold breaks. That one second of reprieve is used to slam the edges of your closed fists together, and activate the bracers' hidden blades.

With a shriek of sliding metal, a short sword bursts from the top of each gauntlet. So close, the songsteel almost kisses the skin as it emerges. As hard as you can, one arm slams into the unarmoured curve of his hip. The blade buries itself deep into the unprotected flesh that it finds there. The stormtrooper goes down on one knee and you twist, ripping that hand from his body as the other slices an arc through his throat.

Another suit takes his place almost instantly. At least you were expecting that. The barrel of his blaster raises. A beam of red light echos off the flat of the shining sword on your left, barely missing the side of your cheek. The last thing that you needed was another burn. The one you had was more than enough trouble.

Before the stormtrooper has time to react, you bring the blade of your left hand down upon his fingers. The gun hits the ground, alongside three of his digits. His cry of horror quickly ends as the sword on your right hand skewers his throat. His knees crumple. There is resistance as you try to yank the sword free from his neck, and so you place a foot on his chest to rip the weapon out. It comes loose with a spurt of red, which splatters across your clothes and hair. 

You may have found it disgusting if it was not the hundredth or so time that it had happened.

With a click, the luminescent blades disappear back into the bracers. Being careful to avoid those other serrated points, you wipe the fabric of your sleeve across your eyes. The taste of iron is thick on your tongue. Your nose throbs, and your side is once again screaming for attention. Your stance is unsteady, legs trembling. It feels like someone just hit you over with a truck.

As much as you’d like to sink to the ground and shut your eyes, there is no time to rest. Already other shouts are emerging from within the building. Dark spots are flicking at the side of your vision. There is no chance that you will win another fight. Running is the only option.

Using the wall as a support, you start to push yourself down the street. It’s an awkward movement. A half limp, with a bit of a hop. That fucking injury at your waist will not allow you to do anymore. Each step brings another prickle of faintness. Gritting your teeth into a snarl, you redouble your efforts to no avail. Maybe, just _maybe_ , you can knock someone off a speeder and zip out of here. You're not sure where you'll go. The attack was too sudden, too confident. They must have found the ship. The tracking software was supposed to be disabled. You _never_ should have stolen such a vessel.

There is a shout from behind. A glance thrown over your shoulder shows three more Stormtroopers emerging into the light. _Fuck._ There’s no option but to throw yourself behind the nearest crate. Debris rains through the air as you fall. The red shots of their blasters are exploding anything and everything in the vicinity. Except, of course, the weak wooden box that becomes your shelter. If the situation wasn’t so dire, it may be comical.

Once more, your damp fingers curl around your blaster’s trigger. Another swift peek outward shows that the trio of Stormtroopers are steadily advancing upon your position. They’ll be here in a matter of seconds. This is the moment where you either do something, or you don’t. As always, your preference is for the former.

Your shot slams perfectly into the chest of the one leading point. There is a low thud as the force knocks him onto the ground. Immediately, the other two return fire. Scarlet beams silhouette the crate, peppering the dirt all around your feet. Your legs pull close against your body, drawing another ache from your side. The dust rises thick into the air with each impact, the granules rising to blur your eyes once more. Eventually, it pauses.

A groan sounds as the trooper you hit is pulled back to his feet by one of his comrades. As soon as he rises, you use the temporary distraction to fire another round directly into his helmet. Legs folding, he goes down again. This time, you do manage a small chuckle. Cursing loudly, the other two take cover. Maybe you do have a chance after all. Certainly, your aim has the advantage.

Hope blossoming in your chest, you twist to get a better angle. What you have failed to notice is the silent figure slipping from the alley to your right. He slides forward as soundless as a shadow. As you lean outward to take aim once again, something cold presses into your temple. Everything freezes. Chilling disbelief, coupled with dread, runs thickly down the back of your throat.

“I warned you about crossing my path again,” a low voice reasons. “Now drop the blaster.”

_Fuck._

“Please.” The words leave your mouth jaggedly, as if torn from your chest. “They’ll kill me.”

There is a beat of silence, and then the Mandalorian’s cold voice rings out once more. “I don’t care.”

Your eyes lift to meet his impenetrable helmet. _How easy must it be, to have such a shield in which to hide from the world? To never have to look into the eyes of those you condemn. What privilege that was, the lack of accountability._ When you speak again, your tone drips with venom. “ _Coward._ ” 

“I've already told you once to put the gun down,” he orders. Shoulders tensed, you make no move to do so. A sigh leaves his chest, as if the whole situation is extremely trivial. As if you are boring him. The barrel presses deeper into the side of your head. “There are two options. I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

It’s definitely a practised line, but there is no bluff in his voice. If you do not comply, he will kill you and not think twice about it. Your throat bobs as you swallow. With one last shudder, you fold. The gun clatters to the ground. A silver covered foot sneaks out to kick it away. With all the defiance you can muster, you send a chunk of pink tinged spittle sailing onto his shoe.

The Mandalorian is upon you instantly. With a rough shove, he forces you down onto your stomach. The weight of him is heavy upon your back, solid points of beskar armour rough against the grooves of your skin. Strong legs are planting on either side of your body as he kneels above, straddling you. He is pressing down into your lower body, one hand on your back as the other welds your cheek to the dirt. As much as you struggle, the strength in those arms does not let up.

“Stars above,” you hiss angrily. “You’re fucking _heavy._ ”

“Quiet,” he commands. “Now give me your arms.”

With no other choice, you comply. There is no gentleness to his movements as he cuffs your hands together. His touch is rough, unyielding. In a sharp motion, he yanks the restraints as tight as possible. A hiss draws from your lips, your body arching on the ground. A harsh chuckle emerges from under the helmet, distorted by the modifier inside.

“Sick fuck,” you whisper, and then his weight upon your back suddenly increases until you can barely breathe. 

When he finally drags you upright, the side of your body is layered with orange dust. Brandishing you by the scruff like some sort of misbehaving dog, his head tilts towards the lingering Stormtroopers. “I’m here about the job.”

  
  


***

  
  


“What are you going to do with her?”

Tied securely to a chair, you can only listen as that damned Mandalorian converses with the mysterious client. Fucking hell, the man looks old. Like a relic from ancient times. If you saw him on the street, one may be fooled into thinking that he was harmless. The Imperial crest hanging on a thick chain from his neck tells otherwise, as do the five Stormtroopers littering the room. Their watchful gazes flit between yourself and the two sided conversation at hand. 

The Client shrugs. “Yet to be decided. She stole a ship from a remnant at Kessel. Killed a number of officers. The cost of such an act would normally be execution.”

“I had suspected so,” the Mandalorian replies.

With a sigh, the Client gestures to a nearby Stormtrooper. “I’ll assume that you wish for a reward, Mandalorian? We had not had time to issue a bounty, but you did bring her in. Some compensation is in order.”

One of the uniformed guards immediately crosses the room, and hands the man a sack of credits. With no hesitation, the Mandalorian accepts the offering. Rage builds as he ties the sack to his belt, not even sparing a look in your direction. _Fucking bastard. As soon as you get out of this chair, you’ll kill him._

The Mandalorian had taken his cuffs back, but they had tied you with a thick length of rope instead. The bonds creak as you flex your hands, testing the strength of the restraints. Noticing the movement, a Stormtrooper’s fist slams into the side of your temple. Immediately, the rope slips from your hands. Head hanging against your chest, you try to fight the wave of shadows that threaten to swallow you whole. The only thing that you can see is the gleaming red of your pendant. The chain beats against your neck, in sync with the quick rhythm of your heart. Fear laces through your veins.

“And now,” the Client continues, “we will get to the true purpose of your visit.” He pauses momentarily, though you cannot force your head to raise to see why. “Take the girl out of here.”

There is a shuffle as the Stormtroopers around you move to obey. The world tilts backwards as the chair is dragged from the room, with you still seated in it. As weak as a newborn, you can’t even stop the useless drag of your feet across the ground. There’s a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. With your mind so addled, the pain radiating through every area of your body is barely noticeable. 

As your head lolls back, your unfocused eyes register the Mandalorian once more. Seated at the table, his head mostly faces the Client. But, there is an almost unperceivable turn towards you. Once again, you can feel that intense gaze behind the visor.

Wheezing, hatred surges as you bid him a final goodbye. “Rot in hell, Mandalorian.”

Another impact to the back of your head sends stars bursting across your vision. Fluorescent lights flash above your mind as you lapse in and out of consciousness. There is darkness. Disembodied voices. The sound of the chair continuing to drag across the floor. Keys clink together, and the lock of a door clicks. And then silence, only interrupted by a low whimper. It's soft. Fearful. It takes a moment to realise that it is coming from you.

The roiling darkness comes in a wave. It engulfs you, pulls you in, drags you under. After so much struggle, the surrender is almost sweet relief. Your mind relaxes, body stills. There’s no more pain in your side, in your head. Just blackness and calm. Time passes in a daze. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Maybe longer.

And then, a shiver runs down your spine. A crimson glow splits the darkness. Something jabs into your arm, hard. A sting runs through your veins. The pendant around your neck pulsates alongside the accelerating beat of your heart. The illusion of peace shatters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, season 1 Din Djarin... Such a harsh asshole.
> 
> I am curious as to whether anyone has any ideas about dear Nomad's past. It's early days and not too many hints have been dropped, but it's always interesting to see what thoughts out there. I have her background mostly set in stone, so I don't think that things will change even if someone manages to guess it. Although, I won't say whether you are correct or not!
> 
> Well, I probably won't be back until the early days after Christmas earliest. Happy holidays, lovelies!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is having a lovely day/night, and a happy new year! Let's hope that this one is better than the last.
> 
> This chapter is a little intense, and contains a loose mention of (non-s*xual) familial abuse. If this is something that you would rather not read, please skip to the end notes where I will summarize what happens. I would however note that there will be more mentions of this in later chapters, though it will not go into too much detail. If you are uncomfortable with the topic, this story may unfortunately not be for you. The summary can hopefully help you make up your mind on this, if it applies to you.
> 
> I have no songs to recommend for this chapter! It was written with silence.

It isn’t the first time that someone has tried to drown you. The memory only makes it obvious that the Stormtroopers are ridiculously bad at it. In the past, the Empire had employed torturers. Specialists whose sole purpose was to extract information from hostages. They were masters at their crafts. Almost as respectable as assassins. Up against one of their kind, you may have broken. Luckily, those ordinary members of the legion did not have quite the same talent.

Water drips from soaked tendrils of hair, trailing down your shoulders, as a laugh escapes your lips. It is gone the next moment as your face is shoved back down into the bucket of foul-tasting water. There is only time for a quick breath of air. Air bubbles lift around you. A few seconds pass before you start to push back against the hold. Usually upon displaying some resistance, the grip will slacken and allow you back up to the surface.

Not this time.

The hand on the back of your head does not relent. Fingers twist tighter into your hair, tugging at the roots of your skull. One last splutter of air leaves your lungs. That grip does not loosen. You try not to panic at first. They’ll let you up soon. It’ll be _fine._

A moment passes. And then another. Until there is no holding back anymore. Your chest seizes. Greasy water fills your lungs in one vile choke. That hard grip tightens as another hand settles on your shoulder. It forces you down even further, until your shoulders are digging against the top of the pail. 

Desperation surges. Wildly, you begin to properly struggle against the arm forcing you down. Doing so before ran the risk of another savage blow to the head. That’s the least of your worries now.

Every part of your chest feels like it’s burning. Your side is flaring with agony. Those few stitches that the nervous spectacled doctor gave you are undoubtedly shredded by now. The rope binding your wrists chafts painfully against the skin it finds there. If your face was not submerged, a few glistening tears may have been noticeable.

 _Why did you mock them? Why did you have to get so confident? Arrogant fool._ Ramley always said that it would be the death of you. More than anything, you hate the idea of that bastard being right.

Black edges tunnel down the sides of your vision. The fear at this stage is uncontainable, almost animal in nature. Your head is pounding. And then something happens. It’s like… You’re in two places at once. Here in the cell, but also in the forest outside of your father’s home. The Stormtrooper is holding you under, but so are your brothers. Ajax is tightly gripping your shoulders as you fight desperately for freedom, for air. The image of Ramley’s shoes flicker before your eyes, planted relaxedly against the lake floor as he watches your shared sibling drown you. Bryden is on the shore, fending off your screaming companion as he fights desperately to reach out.

You know what happens next. Your friend will run for help, and your father will come. _But Papa is not here to save you now._

And then, as if he is suddenly right there in the room with you, his barked command fills your mind and shocks you back into sanity. _Fight!_

A pulse of electricity surges in the centre of your chest. Adrenaline floods your body. A spear of white hot pain shoots through your head as you jerk away. The clump of hair held in the Stormtrooper’s fist tears free of your skull. Thrown off by the sudden surge of momentum, your torturer stumbles back. The bucket topples as you jerk away violenty, spilling floods of stinking grey water onto the ground.

The pure oxygen flooding your lung is dizzying. Heaving gasps wrack your chest. Your head lolls around on the ground weakly as you fight to regain your breath. The Stormtrooper curses somewhere above. The fluorescent lights blind you to his movements, but when his boot connects with your stomach you know _exactly_ where he is. A moan of pain escapes your lips as you curl in on yourself even more.

A hand seizes your shoulder, dragging you back onto the chair that has been both your reprieve and prison over this last day or two. It’s hard to tell how much time has passed at this point. Your head is forced back by rough hands, and you can see his helmet glinting in those cracked overhead lights. 

“Who are you?”

It’s a question that they have been asking for hours. In the past, they would have had technology available that could have identified you in seconds. Now, in this hovel that they call a base, they do not hold such advanced gadgets. It is both a blessing and a curse.

“You’re going to have to try better than that,” is the mumbled defiance that leaves your lips. “The Empire would be embarrassed by your efforts.”

That earns you another blow to the stomach. At this point, the pain radiating through your entire body is almost numbing. A pinkish pool of water is slowly gathering around the feet of your chair.

“This will only get more unpleasant, girl.” Despite the moderator in his helmet, the Stormtrooper’s words are a snarl. “It’s in your best interest to give up now.”

Your head shakes in response. A hand seizes your throat, as his other fists clenches and draws back once again. Before he can strike, can pummel you in the face, another voice cuts across the small room.

“Enough.”

The wizened figure of the Client is standing in the doorway. Both of his hands rest atop his cane, the tip of which is firmly planted against the ground. Two other dirtied Stormtroopers flank his rear. At the sight of their entrance, your interrogator draws back into a salute. The bright blue eyes of the Client do not leave your face. You can feel his gaze scanning you, taking in your face, the lower half of which is now unencumbered by your usual mask. They are almost piercing.

“Leave us.” His command is directed at his protection detail. After only a slight hesitation, they obey. The Client’s steady gaze remains as they all troop out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. As they fade away, he finally speaks. “You look familiar. Somehow.”

Your right arm spasms before you can stop it. Those quick eyes deftly note the movement. You chuckle, a small shake of your head accompanying the motion. An admonishment to yourself. “I get that all the time. Must have one of those faces.”

It’s a pathetic lie. Completely transparent. And yet, you were hardly going to tell him the truth.

“I doubt that,” he replies with a sardonic smile.

A shrug, made of forced nonchalance and barely concealed pain, rolls your shoulders. “Worth a shot.”

Reaching into the pocket of his robes, a familiar card emerges between his fingers. “There’s nothing of use on this. An alias, but no hint of a real name. Nothing about a home planet or a previous occupation. It is as if… You simply appeared from thin air.” The cane clicks against the ground as he begins to move in a slow circle around your chair. “Curious. Quite curious. I simply must know more.”

“There’s nothing to know,” you tell him hoarsely. “I’m no one. I come from nothing.”

“Yes. _‘The Nomad,’_ ” he supplies contentiously. “A very nice title. I may almost believe you. Plenty of thugs for hire do not come from anywhere of note. It wouldn’t be unrealistic for you to be the same. Except for two things.” He passes behind the chair, and you have to crane your body to track his course. “I saw the footage from Kessel. How you tore through the remnant stationed there. Such skill… And of a very particular kind. I know the trademark moves of an Imperial Assassin when I see them.” 

“You’re wrong.” It’s the only rebuttal that you can muster.

“I am not.” There is no doubt to his tone. With a final step, he is back in-front of you. Mere inches from the ends of your knees. “You were one of us once. But the thing that makes me the most interested in your identity is _this_.” The end of his cane raises from the ground and hovers in the air, barely brushing against the pendant upon your neck. “It is not a kyber crystal. Not as I know it, but the resemblance is _uncanny._ I would be most intrigued to know where it came into your possession.”

You don't answer. _Can't_ answer.

Reading the resolution in your face, his own head shakes sadly. "We will get to the truth, girl. One way or another. My men are already searching the ship you stole. What a mistake that was. The vessel was far too easy to spot, even amidst though canyons."

"How did you know I was here?" The words leave your lips before you can halt them.

The Client smiles softly. "They knew that you couldn't have gone far. Not with your injury, and not on board an Imperial ship. The New Republic would have gunned you down in an instant if you ventured closer than the Outer Rim. There were not many options available to you, as I am sure you were aware. Nevarro is a place occupied by those who do not want to be found. It was only logical."

With a slow nod, you absorb the information. "And how did you immediately know it was me? The door had barely opened."

"We had lookouts stationed throughout the city. They were told to keep their attention on a lone female with a wound to her left side. One spotted you upon entering the bar, and noticed the blood. You had spoken to Greef, and it was clear you'd come straight to us. I will admit, I did not expect you to put up such a fight. It was rather impressive. Without that wound holding you back… I think the outcome could have been very different."

Another laugh wheezes from your chest. "You're too kind."

"And you are insolent, child. I have indulged you for far too long. This little game cannot continue. One way or another, we will get answers." With a wave of his hand, another figure appears in the door. 

The short, anxious form of the doctor is immediately recognisable. His round glasses are tinted blue, even in this dark and shabby room. A massive needle is clutched in his hands. It looks like something you'd use to tranquilize a _fucking_ blurrg, not a human being. Or, half-human. As he approaches, you cringe away. It's hard to tear your eyes away from that wicked point.

That nervous gaze flickers between you and the Client as you struggle against your bindings. The last thing that they had stuck you with had made you so nauseous you could barely breathe. Your mind had been caught in such a loop that time had completely escaped you. It was a disorienting, sickening sensation that you did not want to live through again.

"No." A jagged whisper, born of desperation and fear, hovers in the air. "Please."

The Client leans forward. "Then tell me who you are."

Squeezing your eyes shut, you shake your head. The cold point of the needle presses into your skin before you can even scream, sending you hurtling back down that tunnel of pulsating lights and distant memories.

***

Maybe it's days. _Weeks?_ Who the fuck even knows anymore. Certainly, not you. Whatever that serum was, it seemed almost psychedelic in nature.

It was a sensation that you had experienced only once before. Hunting an escaped convict through the forests of Dagobah, you had plucked what you thought was a normal, nutritious mushroom from the woodland floor and cooked it into a stew. The next three days had been spent rolling on the leaves as puppets danced in the sky above. The target had escaped the planet, and it took you weeks to catch up with her again.

The cell was different from that forest in many ways. Those leaves had not been as uncomfortable as this sad excuse for the bed. The Mustafarian air was not musty and stale, like that of Nevarro. You would have much preferred to be tripping out back there. The twisting and flailing is harder here, not that you have much control over your motions at this stage anyhow. They unbound your hands while you were in here. At least that was something.

It is days later when a rare moment of clarity subverts your clouded mind. It is brought on by some external commotion. There is a distant clanging down the hallway, and then the sound of the door to the end of the corridor opening. Footfalls echo down the space. Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you are just in time to see a Stormtrooper march past. Hovering at his side, is a metal sphere. It’s a quarter open and stuffed with blankets, almost like a crib. There’s something in there. 

Tiny. Green. Wrinkled. Large pointed ears. Dark eyes. A child, of some kind. Unlike any species you’ve ever seen before. There is heat at the centre of your sternum, the pendant prickling your skin.

“Hey.” Your voice is groggy, but forceful. “Hey... Wait!” The world lurches as you topple off the shitty excuse for a bed they placed you on. Half-dragging yourself across the floor, you finally reach the bars of the cage. “What are you doing with that kid?”

“Quiet,” the Stormtrooper commands. 

There is no falter in his step as he continues down the corridor. The infant is still floating alongside him. It cranes its head to look back at you, and a high pitched gurgle escapes its lips. 

Another wave of dizziness forces you back underneath the fog. Your grip on the bars slacken, hand thudding back to the earth. Dust tickles the back of your throat as your face rests against the filthy ground. As much as you fight to keep your eyes open, they will not cooperate. The darkness is familiar at this point, but you succumb with reluctance.

Thankfully, there are no puppets dancing in the sky this time.

It’s hours later when you jolt upright, just as the first explosion shakes the base. _What the fuck was that?!_ Everything goes dark in an instant as all the overhead lights die. The high pitched wail of a siren fills the air. Emergency bulbs are flashing at each side of the hall. The rapid thud of heavy boots ring down the hall as a pair of Stormtroopers rush past once again. 

Their attention is not on you, not as you struggle to haul yourself off the ground, but on the door at the opposite side. Nausea is still roiling in your stomach as you clamber to your feet. Smoke is filling the air, clouding the end of the passage. It’s not like you can see far beyond anyhow, not with bars blocking your way. And then there are flashes of red between the grey wisps. Cries of pain distorted from the Stormtrooper’s monotone helmets, and the impact of bodies hitting the floor.

A figure emerges from the haze. The blinking lights of the base glint off of silver armour. A Mandalorian. Maybe not the same loathsome specimen you encountered previously. The cuirass and pauldrons are different. Bright, instead of coated in old rust. But then his head tilts, just slightly. That signature movement sends alarm bells ringing inside your mind. _No_. _For fuck’s sake._ It’s the same asshole as before. Only now, he has had a clear upgrade in gear.

“Got a promotion?” You ask bitterly, before you can stop yourself.

He ignores the jab. “They brought a child in earlier today. Where is he?”

“Let me out of the cell, and I’ll tell you.”

The contemplation lasts less than a second. “No.”

“Come on,” you snarl. “I can _help_ you. Do you think they put me in here because we get along?”

“You’ll only get in my way,” he replies, and starts to stride past you. 

Another Stormtrooper appears, lurching from the shadows as if he had just materialised from them. The Mandalorian handles him with ease. The gun is knocked from his hand instantaneously. In one powerful movement, the Mandalorian launches his foot into the Stormtrooper’s stomach. He collides with the bars just and you fall back from them in surprise. Arm a blur of silver, the Mandalorian whips a knife from his belt and slashes in one powerful movement. A sharp blade pierces the unprotected strip around the Stormtrooper’s throat. There is a gargled cry of pain from that white helmet, and then the unmoving figure collapses listlessly to the ground, seated upright against your cell’s bars.

The Mandalorian leaves without another glance. There are no words to describe the bubbling of anger and frustration in your chest. Because nothing you can say will do your emotions justice, you simply brandish the middle finger at his receding back with all of the fury that can fit into the gesture. The door hisses closed behind him. Panic rises in your chest as you whirl, casting your gaze desperately around. That’s when you spy the access card on the fallen Stormtrooper’s waist. 

You lurch forward to retrieve it with such force that your side throbs in agony. The pain does little to stop your desperate fingers as you rip it from his holster. Just as you retrieve it, the door opens back up again. The Mandalorian is back with a small bundle of brown cloth held in one arm. The card is hidden up your sleeve in an instant. You watch him pass with a drawn brow, mouth curled with hatred. While the helmet does not tilt, you can feel the prickle of his gaze on yours.

Something catches your eye in the nest of fabric. _That baby._ Those large dark eyes are closed, and its small body lies unmoving. Concern stabs in your chest. It must be sleeping. Or something. It doesn't look hurt. The Mandalorian twists his torso further away from you, as if he is afraid that you will lunge and try to grab the infant.

_Stars above. You wouldn’t stoop low enough to hurt a child._

They disappear. As soon as you’re certain they are out of sight, your arm slides through the bars of the cage and up to the control panel. The light blinks green, and the door clicks open with a loud buzz. You are pushing your way out in an instant. There is no way of knowing how many Stormtroopers will pour into this building now. There can’t be many, but you are severely weakened and cannot take the chance of being overwhelmed. Despite the pain, the lingering effects of the drugs, there can be no delay. You need to leave. _Right now._

It’s hard to walk straight. _Who knew that ‘one foot before the other and repeat’ could be so hard?_ You do it anyway, trailing along the path that the Mandalorian just left. It’s your best chance of an exit, and it’s doubtful that he is lingering either. 

Relief floods your chest as you pass through the door frame. This next room is unfamiliar. It’s filled with cargo boxes from floor to ceiling. One is half-opened, and a blaster lays atop the hay stuffed into the interior. Your eager hands snatch it up instantly. And then, as you turn, a familiar black fabric catches your eye. _Your backpack._ They must have taken it back with them after checking the stolen ship.

Dropping to your knees, you yank the zips open. It’s hard to see anything in here, but your fingers desperately dig through the interior. Eventually, they brush against a cold metal flask. Hoisting it out, you give it a hard shake. Something heavy rattles on the inside. Your breath leaves your chest in a sharp sigh of relief. _It’s still here._

Shots ring out from a room nearby. It seems like the Mandalorian didn’t make it too far. You close the bag, slinging it around your shoulder, before clicking the safety of the blaster. The procession continues in a crouch. Fallen Stormtroopers line your path, and every second step seems to involve not tripping over a body. Despite your hatred for the man, the Mandalorian is very good at his craft.

Which is why you keep at his heels, always a doorway behind, using him as a battering ram for your escape. And so, when he is eventually cornered by four of the ex-Imperial soldiers, you make the choice that you do.

He is just lowering the child to the ground when you leap from the corner, blaster firing in quick succession. Your aim is steady. All of the shots land true. The Stormtroopers hit the ground before they even knew what had happened. 

With a sigh of exasperation, the Mandalorian dryly comments, “I was about to handle it.”

And then the muzzle of your weapon refocuses upon him. He starts, as if surprised. Those gloved hands slowly lift in surrender. You can feel the snarl seared across your bare face.

The fact is, you want to kill him. If somebody asked you what your perfect day looked like, it would _solely_ revolve around shooting that Mandalorian. Your fingers tighten around the trigger, and you almost indulge that fantasy. Just almost, however, as reality sets in. 

The blaster sways and drops weakly back to your side. That small show of strength had cost more than you’d bargained for. A wave of pain surges. Wincing, you clamp your hand weakly against the area above your hip. The cloth of your shirt is damp once more.

You can’t shoot him. Not now at least. Regrettably, his help is still needed.

The next words emerge through your gritted teeth. “Truce? At least until we get out of this shithole.” It’s embarrassing to have to ask for his help twice. Three times, if you count begging him not to turn you in upon your second encounter. _Are there more?_ Who the fuck knows at this stage.

There’s a moment of silence on his end. And then. “Fine.”

With a nod, you motion for him to proceed. He does after a brief hesitation. A green fist emerges from the bundle in his arms as the little alien child thrashes slightly in its sleep. You manage to get barely a peek into the cloth before the Mandalorian jerks it further from your sight. A soft grumble sounds from the blanket’s confines. Your chest relaxes slightly. _It's okay._

An unspoken warning lingers in the air. _Don’t try anything._ And you’re not stupid, so you won’t.

The tension is thick as the Mandalorian’s back finally turns, and he leads way towards the exit. Your eyes narrow, peering past the cloak to map the places where his chestplate ends. Where his skin is exposed under thin lines of fabric. 

An unspoken promise rings through your mind. It brings anger, and the strength to keep going. The very _second_ that you are free to act, that knife on his belt will find its final resting place deep in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:  
> Confined to a cell and subjected to water-torture for information on her identity, Nomad refuses to give anything away. It is not the first time someone has attempted to drown her, and the Stormtroopers are not as good at it as her brothers were. Quite plainly, to tell them who she is will most certainly result in death. She is kept sedated to avoid any escape attempts, and spends the following days after her capture floating in and out of consciousness. During one short break of consciousness, she sees the Stormtroopers walk past with a small green infant in a metal orb floating at their side. The child babbles as it passes. Concerned for it's wellbeing, she manages to rise from her cot and crawl to the bars. She demands to know what they are planning to do with it, but gets no response. Unable to maintain her strength, Nomad falls unconscious once more.  
> An abrupt awakening to the sound of an explosion follows. Stormtroopers rush in, and flashes of red fill the smoke at the end of the corridor. The Mandalorian suddenly appears outside her cell, demanding to know where the child is. She tells him to release her, that they can work together. He refuses. As he goes to leave, another Stormtrooper attacks and is quickly stopped by the Mandalorian. His fallen body lands against the cell bars. When the Mandalorian secures the child and leaves, Nomad snatches the access card from the fallen Stormtrooper's belt and follows after him. In the next room, she manages to recover her backpack which must have been taken when they cleared the ship she stole. Quietly, she follows the Mandalorian as he fights his way out. However, when he is apparently cornered, she makes an effort to step in and help. The two reluctantly agree to work together, though Nomad promises herself she will kill the Mandalorian as soon as she is able.
> 
> I hope you are enjoying the fic so far! Kudos and comments are much appreciated, and always the best moral booster. Those of you who I have talked to so far have been absolutely lovely, and thank you so much for taking the time to engage. :)
> 
> Just a heads up - I return to my full time work on Monday. Updates will continue, of course, but will be a little more spread out. I do not have a set schedule, as unfortunately my life is a little too chaotic to allow that. Please know that I am working on content when available/able to do so, and aim to get things up as quickly as I can. This is not always something I can control, as the outside world has a tendency to take precident.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... I know that I said it would be a little bit until I posted again as my job started back yesterday, however, you guys left so many lovely comments that it really bolstered my motivation! Ah, the powers of positive reinforcement. :) Next chapter to come when I have it ready, though same disclaimer applies as on the previously upload. Unfortunately, I'm running a three week event in work that starts tomorrow so that may take up a good chunk of time and energy!
> 
> This chapter was created when listening to the following song(s):  
> All Eyes on You - Smash Into Pieces

That dead bastard is wearing your bracers. He is face-down on the ground, but the serrated steel blades stemming down each wrists are instantly visible. Your pace slows in earnest. A quick glance shows no one in the vicinity, but that means very little right now. That siren is still wailing inside the building. The combination of that continued whine and the earlier explosions have undoubtedly drawn attention. _It's time to leave, but…_

The Mandalorian shows no sign of stopping as you halt to retrieve them. Instead, he continues with his steady pace, the green child still clasped gingerly in the crook of one of his arms. Dust kicks up around your feet as you pause. Indecision is plain on your face, visible in your twitching and indecisive motions. You can’t bring yourself to just leave them there, but any delay only increases the danger.

“Can you wait a second?!” Your snarl echoes down the alley. It’s far too loud. The gap between yourself and the Mandalorian grows as he refuses to falter. Already, you know his answer before he even speaks. 

“No.” 

As you thought. Like you would expect anything else from this prick.

A loud sigh leaves your lips. It’s followed by a flurry of movement, as quick as you can before the Mandalorian rounds the corner. There’s a sharp stab of pain lacing your side as you lean down to roll him onto his stomach. Your foot braces on the chest of the fallen corpse, hands lifting one of his arms from the ground. The rush of adrenaline causes your fingers to shake, and makes it harder than necessary to undo the buckles of the gauntlet. Some further effort is then required to tug them free. They were custom-made to fit your forearms like a glove. They are a little tight on the bulkier Stormtrooper.

The Mandalorian disappears around the bend just as you manage to secure them around your forearm. Cursing foully, you hurry after him. Every step further ingrains the wave of pain and exhaustion through your body. 

Maybe your ideal of a perfect day would include escaping this shithole as well as shooting the Mandalorian. _Yeah._ That sounds about right.

Thankfully, there is not too much of a distance to cover before you’re back at his side. He does not acknowledge your return. It doesn't bother you, as right now your preoccupation is on fixing the bracers back onto your arms. Once they are in place, you snap the sides of your closed fists together sharply. The hidden blades spring out over the tops of your hands, and you take a moment to assess them and the ever-present serrated sides of the gauntlet. No blood taunts the luminescent silver visage of the metal, a direct contrast against the dark fabric of the bracers themselves. They appear unused and undamaged. _Good_.

A flex of your fingers retracts the front blade of the hand gripping the blaster. Your other arm is taut at your side. The small sword stays present there, in case it is needed. 

Their weight brings a reassurance that few other things in this galaxy can. They had been a gift from your godfather. Your namesake. One that would serve you well over the years, although probably not in the ways that he had anticipated. Besides, the concept of his approval is not something that you have _any_ shred of desire for.

A prickle runs down your skin. To the side, a sprinkle of dirt drops from a roof. There's a small creak on the reddish tiles. Your head snaps to the side instantly. The Mandalorian's does the same, blending the two movements in almost unison. It was that same sensation that had needled your skin when unsuspectingly heading to meet with the Client days earlier. Only this time, you knew better to ignore it.

"We need to move."

The streets are eerily quiet. It's as if all the sound has been sucked from the world. Dim grey light has fallen over everything, signalling the approach of night. Each footfall seems to resound far more than it should. Distant figures slink around corners. Not Stormtroopers, or at least, not that you can tell. That thought does little to assuage your nerves.

You can feel their eyes on you. Each time, there is only a momentary glimpse of each before they slip away. However, it's still enough time to catch the glint of weapons strapped to various places on each of the forms. Your fingers readjust on the blaster, which hovers loosely at your side.

"Something's wrong." The tight voice of the Mandalorian calls your attention back to his rigid form. The set of his broad shoulders are tense. “Be ready.”

 _Seriously? State the fucking obvious._ The snide retort is on the cusp of slipping from your lips. It is immensely surprising that you actually managed to restrain yourself. Maybe it’s your self-preservation instincts finally kicking in. _Stars above, it’s taken them long enough._

A charcoal grey scarf flutters from a nearby washing line. One passing tug tears it free. It’s then tied around the lower half of your face. While it’s not as secure as your earlier mask, there isn’t another option. It will have to do. The Imperial officers had unfortunately seen your face, as had the Mandalorian and the green infant, but it was better that no one else managed to catch a glimpse.

Tension only builds further as you continue. The air is charged with it, like a band drawn taut. More shadows flitter between alleys and door frames. Now they are closer, unabashedly watching. Distant beeps fill the air, coming from their direction. You catch the briefest glimpse of a tracking fob in one gnarled hand.

Everything comes to a head when you step out onto the main street. A sudden chill blows through the air, lifting a small wave of dust off the ground. The silence grows to an echoing crescendo.

Bounty hunters flank the walls, prowling like wolves with their cold eyes fixed upon yourself and the Mandalorian. _No_. You're mistaken. They are barely looking at you. Instead, their calculating gazes are fixed upon the wrinkled green infant that the Mandalorian clutches. Blasters level in their hands, pointed at your group, drawing you to a halt. You’re at a loss, confused at the hungry determination written across all of their features.

That’s when Greef Karga steps around the corner, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Given the sheer speed that everything had just happened, you had not yet fully thought through the reason that the Mandalorian stormed the base. It clicks as the child whines its sleep. Those menacing shapes continue to encompass all sides, leaving no room for escape. 

Karga's next words confirm your suspicions. “Welcome back, Mando. Now put the package down.”

 _The package… The child._ You’ve always prided yourself on being quick to catch on.

“Step aside.” The Mandalorian’s response is firm. “We’re going to my ship.”

Greef chuckles. “You put the bounty down and perhaps I’ll let you pass. The Nomad can go free also. I have no quarrel with her.”

Temptation stabs at your heart, but the Mandalorian does not back down. “The kid’s coming with me.”

“If you truly care about the kid, you’ll put it on the speeder.” Karga’s hand gestures to the vehicle just to the side. “And we can discuss terms.”

There is a moment of silence before the Mandalorian replies. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

“Because I’m your only hope,” Karga answers through gritted teeth. His hard eyes meet yours. “This is the best choice for you both.”

From the corner of your eyes, you scan the Mandalorian’s body language. His shoulders are slightly tensed, but there is no other indicator of what he might do. The blaster shifts between your fingers. A weapon is immediately cocked somewhere behind. You are suddenly not so certain that they will just simply let you go if you surrender the child. 

Realistically, they all are probably quite aware that the Imperials have been holding you prisoner, and that there will be a reward for your return to captivity.

Moving slowly, the Mandalorian crosses your path, heading for the speeder. Reluctant to be separated from your ally, however unwilling your partnership, you keep close at his heels. It is clear to you that there is no way that he’s just going to give up. From all you’ve seen of him, backing down is not his way.

And then, as if to confirm your assumption, he abruptly turns and fires his blaster. Immediately, you throw yourself under the speeder as the Mandalorian hurls himself on top. Flashes of red light the darkening sky above as the others return fire. Your pistol fires rapid shots in response. It’s hard to aim from so low, but you manage to hit an impressive range of knees and thighs with relative ease.

“Drive!” You hear the Mandalorian snarl at the droid above. “Drive!”

Your other hand shoots up, catching on the bar at the underside of the speeder as it takes off. There’s no time to brace yourself or gain any kind of perch. All that can be done is cling on _for fucking dear life_ as the vehicle jolts into momentum. Your heels are dragging against the earth as it barrels through the town. Your backpack continues to catch in the rough gravel of the road, but sheer willpower keeps you clinging onto the bar. Above, you can hear the Mandalorian returning fire. A body suddenly collapses, thudding to the dirt right beside your trailing ankles. That’s when the speeder crashes. 

Your hold is ripped from the bar on the underside as you are thrown out to the side. Trash cans slam to the ground as you roll uncontrollably into them. _Fuck._ This was definitely turning into one of the worst weeks of your life. Something thuds into the earth right next to you, drawing an instinctually reaction. The Mandalorian barely dodges the shot from your blaster and shakes his head in annoyance.

“Sorry,” you breathe, but you don’t really mean it.

There’s a weapon in his hands, a pronged javelin of some kind. Unfamiliar. It’s not like anything you’ve ever seen before. And you’ve seen a lot of stuff in your life, so that’s quite _rare_. You were about to scornfully ask if he really brought a _spear_ to a _gunfight_ , when he levels it at one of the other hunters upon the opposite rooftop. With one shot, the figure explodes into a puff of ash. Surprise flits over your features before you can stop it.

That was pretty impressive. Maybe you’ll take that weapon after you shoot him.

More failed negotiations follow. You barely pay attention anymore. It’s obvious that neither Karga or the Mandalorian will give in, and there are still the bounty hunters to worry about. They are closing in on all sides and you go to raise your blaster. The Mandalorian’s arm knocks roughly against yours as he goes to take aim, and so you elbow him fiercely. A dull pain laces up your arm when the blow meets nothing but beskar. _Damn him._

They use the momentary distraction to attack. Fingers yank at your legs, tugging you out of the cover of the scattered debris. The blaster is kicked clear of your hands as a foot comes down hard on your fingers. With a scream, you swipe the other arm at the assailant. The front blade of the bracer springs outwards, slashing through the flesh of his stomach. Blood spurts onto your clothes, some of it landing in your mouth. Another takes his place as more hulking figures surround yourself and the Mandalorian. 

It’s looking like things will be over when your unlikely companion jabs a finger onto his own gauntlet to activate a roaring jet of flame.

Burning orange encompasses your whole vision. It singes your hair, and bathes you in an almost unbearable heat. A chest brushes yours as the Mandalorian leans over your torso, braced on one elbow as the jet continues to force your adversaries back. Around you, the horde is forced back by the searing flames. Your eyesight is momentarily obscured by the nape of his neck. A flash of tanned skin crosses your mind.

“Get the kid,” he snarls, and you crawl to obey.

It is lying still and silent on the ground. _Is he alive?!_ Fear surges through your veins. As your fingers slowly brush the rim of its hood, two large dark eyes open to stare into your face. A quick pant of relief leaves your chest, and then something else happens. 

The strangest sensation brushes your mind. A soft fluttering of a distant presence. The child gurgles at you. A crimson bolt passes just above your head, immediately shaving that strange strange from your mind. Whispering reassuringly, you boost the child into your arms.

The Mandalorian’s steady stream of flame splutters, and then gives out mere moments later. He curses under his breath. Elbows propped underneath him, he wiggles across the cramped space to arrive next to you. Your eyes glare into that visor, trying to find some inspiration or instruction for the next course of action. The dark glass only reflects your soot-smeared face. One of his hands reaches out to touch the infant’s rough clothing with a surprising tenderness. Sadness tinges the motion. He’s preparing to give up.

And then, a bomb explodes overhead. There are Mandalorians, a swarm of them, suddenly raining from the sky. _Fucking hallelujah._ They join the fray with ferocity, tearing through the surrounding bounty hunters with ease.

“Get out of here,” one commands as he lands next to where you are still crouched. “We’ll hold them off.”

“You’re going to have to relocate the covert,” your companion says, taking the child from you with one arm as the other fires his blaster.

“This is the way,” the newcomer says, in a flat tone that suggests they are already resigned to this fate.

The silver-amoured Mandalorian at your side returns the sentiment. “This is the way.”

It must be some kind of code.

With a wave of his arm, the one that you are following bolts from your hiding spot and rushes through the city gate. You are hot on his heels. Lungs burning, chest heaving. Each breath comes in a laboured draw. Your eyes remain fixed on his back as determination spurs you onwards. The child curiously peers back at you around the side of his arms. Those long green ears are flapping wildly as his tiny frame jostles with each step that the Mandalorian takes.

A ship towers across the field. There’s no time to examine it. All that you care about is the cargo door that’s currently lowering to the ground. Light light flickers into existence on the inside, just as the first red beams of a blaster slam into the side of the vessel. The barrage sparks sharply against the metal, but it holds despite the obvious age. It’s a gunship. The make is familiar... _Ex-Imperial._

_Well. That should make you feel right at home._

Heavy footfalls echo as the Mandalorian’s feet pound up the ramp. You are just joining him inside when a familiar voice rings out.

“Hold it. Both of you.”

Right ahead of you, the Mandalorian freezes in place. You do the same, spine tingling as anger floods your veins. _So fucking close._ Turning around slowly, you take in Greef Karga standing at the rear of the ship. His blaster hovering between the two of you.

“I didn’t want it to come to this.” The Guild Master almost sounds disappointed. 

“Greef, you don’t have to do this,” you try to reason with him, both hands help placatingly in the air. “Just let us go.”

The resolve on his face does not waver at your plea.

Just then, there is a sharp squeal of metal as the Mandalorian jerks to the side. A dart bursts out of his wrist, shooting into the control panel on the ship’s side. Smoke floods the hold with a reverberating hiss. You can’t see _anything_. Karga’s blaster fires wildly. Barely managing to dodge the fire, you trip, careering heavily onto the ground.

There is one single shot from above. From the Mandalorian standing over your head. It strikes Karga in the centre of the chest. The guild master plummets from sight, tumbling from the ship's rear. Grumbling to yourself, you rise to your feet. Every inch of you is covered in bright orange dirt and dark soot. 

That silver gloved fist slams into a button on the ship’s instruction panel. The ancient ship groans to obey. You step closer, getting one last look out onto the smoke rising above the city and the distant flashes of crimson. When it closes, there is nothing but a hunk of metal to fill your field of vision.

 _Nevarro is a shithole, and you are_ never _coming back to it again._

You turn towards the Mandalorian. Having placed the child into some makeshift bunk, he straightens. That helmet turns towards you. Although his scrutiny cannot be seen, those hidden eyes prickle your skin. And then, the hairs on the backs of your arms raise as the realisation of a very important fact washes across your mind.

_Alone._

And Karga’s blaster is on the floor by your feet.

“Don’t-” he warns, one hand extended, but it’s too late as you’ve seen his other jerk back to the weapon he just sheathed.

Throwing yourself to the floor, you manage to grab the gun just as he rips his own back from his belt. Recoil jerks as the first red beam connects with that helmet. It pings harmlessly off the beskar, but the collision gives you all that you need. Momentary distraction. Just enough time to rush him. 

“Stop!” he roars.

_But you just can’t._

One foot braces against the sloping side wall as you vault straight into his chest. The collision is hard, drawing a snarl from your lips and a pang of pain from your side. 

He just about manages to dodge the swipe of your left serrated bracer, but pitches backward in the process. You press the advantage, slashing at his face. A strong forearm jolts against yours as his own gauntlet catches your attack. Across the lock of blades, your glaring eyes bore into his darkened visor. With a show of abrupt strength, the Mandalorian breaks the hold and sends you staggering back. _Shit. He's one strong bastard._

That curled fist surges past your face, pounding into the wall. The metal side dents underneath it. A surge of panic wells in your chest at the ferocity of the blow. _He may actually fucking kill you._

Years of combat experience rush to the fore. Summoning all the strength that you can muster, you bring the blaster down sharply into the crook of his elbow. A low grunt of pain sounds from within the silver helmet. The taut line of his arm crumples immediately. Unable to stop now, you lash the hilt of the blaster into the side of his helmet. The contact sends the metal ringing. Something tears above your hip, and you can feel hot blood leaking from the blaster burn. It brings a wave of dizziness.

The Mandalorian's head snaps to the side. The daze only lasts a split second before he catapults forward. Weakened by the resurgence of your injury, you fail to react before he is upon you. The breath leaves your body in a sharp puff as his shoulder collides with your side. The hard contact with the wound has devastating consequences. The agony is strong that you barely feel your head smash into the hard floor. The world lurches once again, blurring out of focus. What you _do_ feel is the savage blow when he brings down both of his fists onto your searing wound. 

You can't even scream. All the air is gone from your lungs. The past few days have been utter torment, but this is the _worst_ pain that you could imagine. _There are no words for it._

A knife presses against your throat as you writhe in broken silence. Tears stream down your cheeks and salt bites the tip of your tongue.

Finally, you manage to find your voice. "Just make it quick." The words are barely more than a whisper.

That blade presses deeper, stinging your skin. Each deep rise and fall of his armoured chest betrays his temptation. It's thick in the air, so heavy that you can nearly taste it on your lips. Those hard thighs are pressed so tight against your hips, keeping you to the floor, that there is not an inch of space to move.

 _No._ You refuse to die snivelling and weak, like a coward. After all these years, your fight for life will not be surrendered without pride. _You were not there when he met his end, but Papa had not begged either. No matter how convoluted and complex your feelings on your father’s life were, at least he had died with honour._ Lifting your head, you offer the Mandalorian your throat. He stills, just staring at you as you do at him.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. "Do it."

The point of the knife digs into your skin, bringing the tiniest prick of pain. Eyes fluttering closed, you wait for him to draw the blade across your neck. Instead, a loud bang collides with the outside of the ship, so hard the tremor of collision vibrates through where your back is pressed to the wall.

"What are you waiting for?!" Someone shouts. The same voice as the Mandalorian from earlier, the one who told your companion to leave. "Go!"

“Dank farrick,” the Mandalorian curses and quickly sheathes his knife. 

One hand grips the railing above as he pulls himself upright. It takes a minute for your mind to comprehend what's happening. That he's letting you live. _What? Why?_ Rough hands yank your arms upward. The handcuffs clink off his belt, wrapping around the railing above your head before the restraints click onto your wrists.

"You're not going to kill me?" It’s hard to keep the dazed confusion out of your tone.

"No." The reply is measured and emotionless. A beat of hope stirs your heart. Retreating to the bunk, the Mandalorian picks up the alien child. You hadn't realised it was still watching. Those dark eyes appear wide and terrified. The Mandalorian gingerly places him in his strong arm. His other arm, the one that you had injured, lifts slowly to rest on the rung of a ladder. Slowly, that blank helmet turns back to you once more. "Not yet, at least."

***

Hours later, he returns. Groggily, you raise your head from where it rests against the hard metal wall to watch his descent. A cape flits around his ankles as he climbs down the latter. The last few rungs are taken in a leap, the landing sending shudders through the ground. Slowly, that impassive helmet turns to face you. 

The child is nowhere to be seen. Upstairs, probably. Kept away from you.

As he approaches, one arm extends. The pauldron on his shoulder glints in the overhead light. Something is clutched in his fist. It’s too colourful to be a knife. His fingers unfurl, and you see that a rational bar lies in the centre of his palm. It hovers in the air as he waits expectantly.

A dry laugh barks from your chest. It’s more of a wheeze.

“I can’t exactly take it from you.” The words are said with a tug on the handcuffs holding your arms upwards. “Unless you’re planning to feed it to me.”

The Mandalorian starts. One hand twitches, as if a little flustered. Hesitantly, he reaches out to unclasp the shackles. 

“Don’t try anything,” he warns in a low rumble. 

_Not likely._ You’re too exhausted and sore to even think about it. 

With a heavy thud, your weak arms drop to the floor as soon as they are released. The restraints have numbed them, so it doesn’t even really hurt at first. It’s a struggle to pull them into your lap and rub one wrist with the opposite fingers, a weak attempt to increase circulation. Lines of red sear across your skin from days spent in a variety of restraints. There’s bruising mottling the skin all around. 

The ration bar is tossed into your lap after a few minutes.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” the Mandalorian growls. “Hurry up.”

His unspoken meaning is clear. Your release is only very temporary. At this stage, you are just glad for the slightest bit of reprieve. You’ll take discomfort and food over torture and pyschedlic sedatives _any_ day.

And if the Mandalorian is bothering to keep you fed, then it means that he's probably not planning to kill you after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, I'm perfectly fine with it if you wish to continue with leaving nice comments and kudos ;) As proven above, they do certainly have an effect on motivation!
> 
> I realise that the last couple of chapters have been quite action-centric. It was necessary to establish the enemies relationship between our pairing, along with conveying the stakes on Nomad's life. Now that she is with Din on the ship, I can promise a little bit of quiet and more interactions between the two of them for a couple of chapters. Although... They still won't be the most friendly of shared times.
> 
> No spoilers, but next chapter will be from a slightly different point of view. I wonder who's it could be...
> 
> Tumblr: @clints-lucky-arrow


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, hope you're all well!
> 
> Thank you very much for all of you who left support on the last chapter... It was much appreciated. :)
> 
> Some of you guessed correctly, this chapter is from Din's perspective. I've decided to try and follow the canon storyline kind of closely, so this opens at the start of Season 1 Episode 4. Ever few chapters, I've decided that I'll do one from Din's perspective. It can be hard at times to convey his emotions properly from Nomad's perspective, as the helmet is always in the way, so it's nice to be able to get a peek past it every now and again. Even from his perspective, he's much more stoic than Nomad, so I am hoping that conveyed well.

It is the kid that tips him off first. Not that Din realises it at the time. From the moment that they took off in the ship, the infant has been upset. Squealing relentlessly. Those little arms wave in the air, trying to catch his attention, but the meanings of his soft gurglings are lost on the Mandalorian. 

Din speaks a lot of languages. ‘Baby’ is not one of them.

Regardless of the linguistic obstacles, the child has not let the lack of comprehension dissuade him from his unintelligible goal. Whenever Din’s back is turned, that sneaky little creature will vanish. Considering his size and stature, the movements are remarkable fast. Each time Din manages to catch the kid, those little feet are firmly shuffling in your direction. Din can’t understand it. But the child is _relentless._

During the night previous, the Mandalorian was even awoken to the infant attempting to tug up the panel at the end of the bunk. After all the repeated incidents leading up to that moment, the goal was instantly obviously to Din. The kid had been looking to escape out to the main hold. To where you were laying only metres away, arms still cuffed to the railing above.

That shit goes on for _two days._

There are loud indignant protests everytime that Din swoops in to carry the child away. It is… frustrating. _He is not the bad guy here._

The Mandalorian does not trust you. He has every reason not to. _Especially_ around the kid. You had seen what he’d done to protect the infant. Anyone with half a brain would know that he has a soft spot for the child. Threatening the kid would be the _perfect_ leverage to get you out of those cuffs. 

Din has already seen how you you can fight. There was nothing that you couldn’t hit with that blaster back on Nevarro. In addition to that, you had managed to hold your own impressively well in hand-to-hand combat. Days of torture and imprisonment may have weakened your body, but the Mandalorian had been in enough skirmishes against all manner of opponents to realise that there could have been a very different ending if you were at full strength. 

_No._ There is no way he is going to let the child anywhere near you. The entiriety of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild's remaining members are already attempting to track him. Being forced to release a homicidal mercenary from her restraints is certainly the last thing that he needs. It's one less person than is already on his trail.

It is only then, sitting in the pilot’s chair, that Din realises the crying has slowly faded away. There are no soft coos, no contented gurgles. No indignant grumbles. Just silence. And it’s colder in the small room than he remembers. Immediately, Din knows the reason why. The _kriffing_ cockpit door is open. _And the child is gone._

Quickly jamming the switch to autopilot, he all but leaps down the stairs. Through the visor of his helmet, his eyes quickly take in the scene. The child was right beside you. One small green hand perches at your thigh, skating up towards the hem of your shirt-

“No!” Din all but yells, plucking the kid up into his arms and taking a swift step away.

That shrill cry immediately pierces his ears. Almost frantically, his eyes scan down the small body of the green infant. The ears droop in their usual display of sadness, and the wrinkles of his face are more pronounced now that he is bawling. But there are no signs of injury, and the wailing complaints seem to stem more from frustration than anything.

“Yeah, yeah,” the Mandalorian mutters, bouncing the infant in an attempt to calm him down. “I’m an asshole, I know.” 

Din expects a sardonic quip of agreement to emerge from where your form still lies on the ground. There have been enough interactions between you both for him to recognise that relentless expletives are part of your everyday language. Nothing comes. It’s strange, and it doesn’t seem like you to miss such an open opportunity.

Your face is angled away from him, chin resting against your shoulder. From his position, it’s hard to glean a hint of your expression. The Mandalorian’s head tilts, an outward sign of his scrutiny. 

For the last few occasions that he had descended into the hold, you had been fast asleep. Din had just absent-mindedly rationed that it was your body taking the time to recover from the toil it had been through. However, the child is loudly crying right next to you now. That should elicit some sort of response? Those ear-splitting cries are hard to ignore.

“Hey,” Din calls, voice low. There is no reaction. Raising his voice, he tries again. “Hey!”

His foot nudges yours. Your chin drops a little more into the pit of your collarbone. 

Din hesitates, just for a moment. _Could it be a trick? Some clever deception?_ His hand falls to the hilt of his blaster, before tugging it from the holster. The child bleats in his arms, ears nearly touching the neck of his brown shroud. 

Again, there is no response to any of the sounds. Not even when Din clicks the safety off the gun before cautiously stepping closer. With the change of position, he can suddenly see a little more clearly.

The grey pallor of your face is not normal. Neither are the small beads of sweat gathered on your brow, or those dripping down your cheeks. A rank odour creeps underneath his helmet. There’s vomit tangled in the tendrils of your hair. Something is _very_ wrong. 

You shift then, groaning loudly. It catches him so off guard that his finger automatically tightens on the trigger, and he very nearly shoots you. Unfocused eyes land upon him. At first, there is no recognition in your gaze. It’s nearly as if it takes you a few seconds to remember who he is.

"Hey Mandalorian?" You ask groggily, voice holding none of the usual bite. "I don't feel well."

As your body shifts, he notices a wince draw sharply across your glistening face. Those confused eyes flutter down to your side, momentarily gaining clarity, before your head lulls back against the wall. You’re breathing deeply. An attempt to centre yourself. But it’s not normal, either. It’s interrupted. Torn and ragged. Like each inhale is a strain.

Din already has an idea of what's wrong. During that first evening, you had somewhat reluctantly asked for some bandages. It was obvious that you hated having to make even the smallest request of him. The Mandalorian had none to give, having used all of his supply in the aftermath of the fight with the Mudhorn. Not that he was completely confident that he would have shared his stock, even if he had. 

You had settled for washing the blood and dirt away in the bathroom sink. Unwilling to leave his prisoner unsupervised, Din had watched from the doorframe. He had seen the small motions that you tried to hide. The shudders, the tears welling your eyes. The memory of his hands striking that spot had played across his mind. How the fight had immediately fled your body after the blow. And despite all of the disdain that he holds for you, Din could not consider that a weakness.

Kneeling down, the Mandalorian carefully places his blaster on the ground, far out of your reach. It’s not like your hands are free to grab it, but the caution never hurts. The child is also lowered down to the floor, and kept away with one extended arm. The other creeps towards you.

Careful fingers lift the hem of your shirt. A loud moan leaves your lips. The handcuffs clang against the railing above as your body twitches in protest. Din does not draw back. Not even when the fabric grows sticky, unwilling to yield from your skin. Not even when your twitching becomes soft cries of pain, a violent shuddering, and you then slump silently backwards. He doesn't stop until the cloth is lifted clear from your side, and he can see yellow lines of pus leaking from the angry reddened skin of your side.

 _Infection_.

A slow breath reverberates from his helmet as he exhales. Stirred by the hiss it makes while passing through the modulator of the helmet, your head raises.

“Papa?"

" _No,_ " Din replies, almost indignantly. That's when he noticed a little green hand creeping closer to your leg. " _Stop_ it. You were told to stay away."

The child snatches his arm back with a high pitched whine. Those big dark eyes lock on Din's, narrowing, as they try to convey his intentions through looks alone. A little too stressed to deal with whatever oddity that the kid wants now, Din just picks him up and shoots another indecisive look at you.

There's no other option. He needs to find somewhere to land. The kid needs food, and you need… _No_. You're not his problem. He'll drop you off on whatever planet they end up on. Some kind soul is sure to take you in. And if they don't… Well, it's still not really his problem.

The child struggles in his arms, protesting loudly as Din carries him back up the ladder. Only after a slight pause does he go back down to wet an old rag, and drape the cold compress across your forehead. It's not like there's much else that he can do, but it made help soothe the heat of the fever. He doesn’t understand why he does it. Two days with the kid and he’s already turning soft. _Great._

Returning upstairs, Din resolutely calls up the map. His eyes scan the various planets, their climate and infrastructure, their military alignment, before finally settling on one. _Sorgan._ No Starport, no industrial centres, no population density. A ghost in the solar system, and a rare stroke of good luck. It’s surprisingly perfect.

***

There’s no _kriffing_ way that he’s leaving the kid on-board with you. Even when you’re substantially weakened, gripped in the throes of fever, tied down, and barely making any coherent sense. Din has seen hallucinations before, but the wild babbling spilling from your lips is disconcerting, even for him. It’s as if you are locked in a nightmare, unable to jolt free. The cursing grows so extreme that he even tries to cover the child’s ears at some point. Din’s not a prude, not by any means, but you have more mouth than any smuggler, mercenary, or bounty hunter than he’s ever met. It’d be almost impressive, if not for the fact that he doesn’t like you. 

Pausing only to ensure that your restraints are still tightly wrapped around your wrists, the Mandalorian goes to leave. A low mumble brings him to a halt. Glancing back over his shoulder, his eyes catch the final movement of your lips. It’s something else about your father. Caught in delirium, you talk a lot about him. Sometimes with love, sometimes with confusion and anger. Always with an unusual vulnerability that you probably don’t mean for anyone else to hear. 

Din switches off the lights, and leaves with the child in tow. There was a small building displayed on the map, and he will go there first. With any luck, it will have food and medicine. The Razor Crest’s stock is badly in need of both. His other plan still remains the same, to try and find someone who would be willing to take you off his hands. Din could probably part with his few remaining coins to sway some desperate soul to look after you. The other option is to just dump you in the forest. 

For some reason, that just seems a little _too_ cold of an action to him now, even after all of his internal attempts to rationalise it. Din’s not one for pity, but you did help him escape Nevarro. Of course, afterwards you immediately tried to kill him, but he couldn’t really blame you for that. He’s a bounty hunter too, and knows fine well that loyalty is not a defining characteristic of those in the trade.

Arriving at the building, he quickly finds that it is a restaurant. It’s a dead end on the supply front. There’s nothing on offer apart from some stinking bowls of broth, and the oblivious owner can offer no useful information. No medicine, either. This place has next to nothing of use. 

The only point of interest is the ex Shock Trooper that he meets. Cara Dune. A formidable fighter. One of the very few who had ever managed to draw a stalemate with him. She made it very clear that the planet was not big enough for the two of them. They’ll have to move on. 

Din is a little reluctant to leave so soon, but there’s no obvious point in staying. Maybe they’ll have more luck at the next place. Or maybe you’ll die before he can get his hands on some medicine. That would save him a lot of hassle.

He returns to the ship empty-handed. Taking in the outside as he approaches, child in his arms, he realises that it needs some repairs before he can take off. The Razor Crest suffered slight damage leaving Nevarro, and while it held for the first few days, Din is well aware that it’s not wise to ignore issues with your vessel for too long. After all, it’s the only thing standing against the lifeforms on board and the death of open space. 

He checks on you first, notes the rash now spreading down the side of your face. _It’s going from bad to worse._ But there’s nothing that he can do right now except to get off Sorgan.

Retreating outside, he sets about repairing the ship. It’s tedious work, but he’s had to do many repairs on the old vessel before. Some don’t understand why he’s never traded for a new one before, but this old girl has character. They’ve been through a lot together. He’d never willingly part from her.

A few hours into his work, Din hears something approach from behind. The soft creep of a hover cart, followed by two sets of heavy footsteps dismounting. _Men_. He can hear the falter in their stride, the nervous hesitation. They are not here to kill him. No hardened criminal would be so loud, or so uncomfortable in their movements. The air holds an expectant quality, one that signifies that an ask is about to be voiced. He does not turn around.

“Excuse me?” One voice calls, his voice low and nervous.

There is no time for Din to reply before the second voice joins the first, almost immediately after.

“Excuse me, sir?” His companion repeats, tone a little more conciliary.

Din lets out a low sigh of exasperation. “Is there something that I can help you with?” 

The fact that he has not yet turned around should have been enough of a signal for them to realise he was not in the mood to interact, but that seems to have gone unnoticed.

“Yeah,” the first man answers eagerly, and Din can hear him drawing closer. “Raiders.”

_Dank farrick. Can they not tell that he’s not here to work?_

“We have money,” the other supplements hopefully.

“So you think I’m some kind of mercenary?” Din responds. 

He is, sort of, but that’s besides the point. There is a moment of unsure silence from the two, before the second man speaks again. “You are a Mandalorian, right?”

“Or at least wearing Mandalorian armour,” the former speaker adds. “That _is_ Mandalorian armour, right?”

“It is.” Din’s answer is curt.

“See, I told him!” the previous speaker exclaims. “Sir, I’ve read a lot about your people-uh, tribe, and if half of what I’ve read is true-”

“We have money,” the second man interrupts the babble of his friend.

“How much?” Din asks, still busying himself with the ship’s repairs.

“It’s everything we have, sir.” The initial man is the one who answers, his words contain a soft desperation. “Our whole harvest was stolen.”

"We’re Krill farmers,” the other provides some more context.

“We brew spotchka… Our whole village chipped in.”

Din finally turns to take a look at the bag. It is being held by the longer haired farmer. “It won’t be enough.”

“But you don’t even know what the job is!” The other man protests. They follow at Din’s heels as he strides away. His hands tighten into fists. _Can’t they understand that he doesn’t have time for this?_

“I know that it won’t be enough,” he tells them, trying to keep the growl from his voice. “Good luck.”

Their protests follow as he goes to board the ship. They fall on deaf ears, or at least, that is the impression that he tries to give. Steam bursts out as the ramp of the Razor Crest lowers at Din’s command. The farmers fall back in alarm, caught off guard by the roaring gust. Din has to hold back a laugh. It fades when he notices you inside, still unconscious, and the child only paces away. _He had told the little shit to stay up in the cockpit._ Hands on his hips, he shoots the child the most scolding look that he can manage.

“Come on,” one of the men says to the other, from the ground below. Their defeat is now apparent in each breath. His words are an agitated whine. “Let’s head back. It took us the _whole_ day to get here, and now we have to ride back with no protection, to the middle of nowhere.”

Those last five words peak Din’s attention. Pausing, the Mandalorian half-turns towards them. His helmet angles in interest. “Where do you live?”

“On a farm,” the man says in annoyance. “Weren’t you _listening_? We’re farmers.”

“In the middle of nowhere,” Din repeats, angling for clarification. _That part is important._

“Yes.”

“Do you have lodging?” The Mandalorian asks, a faint ray of hope blossoming in his chest, though his voice remains stern and emotionless.

“Absolutely.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “What about medicine? Something that can treat an infection.”

The two men exchange a wordless look, before returning their gazes to Din. One nods fervently, while the other watches in desperate silence. Their renewed hope floods the air.

Din sighs, eyes sweeping from where the child stands guilty to where your unconscious form lies against the sloped sides of the cargo hold. The sheen of sweat across your face is visible from here, as are the wave of shivers wraking your form.

_There’s not really any other choice._

His head inclines towards both of the men. “Good. Help me move some boxes onto your cart.”

The two men share an incredulous look, before eagerly bounding up to his side. Din motions for them to take the small crates stacked by the door, before cautiously approaching you. There is no reaction to his encroaching presence.

Stooping down, the Mandalorian hoists you into his arms. Part of him expects you to thrash and struggle, but the only protests come in the form of weak moans. 

“Who’s she?” One of the farmers asks nervously. “Why is she tied up?”

“She tried to kill me,” Din supplies, “but she’s sick. I’m taking her with me. Your people will heal her.”

It’s not a question. The two men exchange uncertain looks, but do not argue.

The burning heat of your skin warms the metal plates of his armour. Your whole form is damp with sweat. Glancing over his shoulder, Din wordlessly nods for the child to follow. Making sure that you are securely over his shoulder, Din carries you down the ramp.The swish of the kid’s heavy brown wool clothing reaches the Mandalorian’s ears through the beskar helmet as his little body hurries behind you both. When everyone is at the bottom, Din presses a fumbling hand into the button on his wristpad. The ship closes up behind him, locking until he returns. 

The night air must be refreshing, as from above comes a single confused stammer as you waken slowly. “W-What?”

The two farmers step aside as Din reaches the cart. Lowly, he lowers you into the centre. Boxes surround either side of you, fencing your body into the space. It may be a little cramped, but at least you can lie down properly now. The cuffs still bind your wrists together over your stomach, so you wouldn’t be able to try anything without him seeing. Not that you’re in any fit state at all.

Moonlight reflects in your eyes as you stare up at him. Your wet brow is furrowed, tendrils of soaked hair messed across your forehead. That grey pallor remains on your skin. _Dank farrick._ The smell of vomit still clings to you. 

“My backpack,” you groan, shifting in agitation. “I need… I-”

“Ssh,” Din orders. “You need medicine. Forget about the bag.”

“But-”

“Quiet,” he growls through gritted teeth.

Your head falls back against the floor of the cart, eyes glistening with pain. “Fuck you.”

 _There it is._ _That irritation show of needless defiance._ A sardonic smile twists Din’s lips. The corners of your mouth drag down in anger, almost as if you can sense his expression through the helmet. 

“You must be feeling better,” the Mandalorian murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “Maybe even well enough to be left out here. What do you think? Can you fend for yourself in these woods?”

Your throat bobs as you swallow thickly. He can see the flare of fear in your eyes at the suggestion. Both of you are well aware that you’d be lucky to last until the morning if he were to leave you here. There is no sharp retort, as for once you are cowed into submission. A dark chuckle leaves his lips. 

“I thought so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a quick note: While I have tried to make Nomad as race-neutral in writing as I can, it is only fair to say that I have her father in mind as an established character in the Star Wars universe. This means that he is of a specific race/skin colour. I do want everyone to be able to read these stories and see themselves, and so I have done some research into the wider universe. While it is not mentioned in this chapter I have decided to make Nomad biologically half-human. Her maternal side is another race (almost identical to humans but with slight differences that I will get into later) from the Unknown Realms. I managed to find a planet and humanoid species that there was not a whole lot of information on, so that I could construct this angle how I wanted it. 
> 
> The idea is that this specific race is the dominant genotype when compared to human genotyping. Due to this, in appearance Nomad looks like her maternal line from this planet, with very little of her father's outward attributes present in her physical characteristics. I know that human DNA can still mix in surprising ways, but I felt that it would have been a little lazy of me to just say that, so I wanted to put some effort into crafting a believable reason why Nomad looks so different from her father that is hopefully satisfactory.
> 
> I'll try have the next chapter up soon, however work is still demanding to be priority in my life. I actually have an interview for another job on Wednesday, so we'll see what happens there. I am not entirely sure about the company, but it doesn't hurt to have an initial conversation. I do like my current role and firm, just unfortunately there do not seem to be a lot of options for progression, especially with the impact of COVID... Oh well. I'm well aware that I'm very lucky to still have a job nowadays, so I can't complain at all.
> 
> I have to admit, I hated writing that super long dialogue piece between Din and the two farmers. I was watching the scene as writing to make it accurate, and it was so much longer than I remembered! I'm going to try not to do too many of those if I don't need to!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slower chapter... I feel like we definitely need it! Hope you all enjoy :) This chapter was fun to write. I kind of enjoy the gross thing that happens at the end, it made me chuckle when writing!
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have left such lovely messages, as always your support is so appreciated! I hope that everyone is keeping well and staying safe.

“Ow!” You exclaim angrily, flinching away. “ _Watch_ it!”

Omera drops her hands into her lap. A look of stern exasperation crosses her face. It reminds you of one that so often adorned your governess’s face. She’s a mother, so she has that disapproving expression down to absolute perfection. “Don’t be such a child.”

As petulant as ever, your brow furrows in annoyance as you settle back reluctantly. If your arms had been free, they would have been tightly crossed over your chest. The pretty farmer just shakes her head. A small, amused sigh slowly leaves her lips. Her fingers slide back into the pot, gathering the last remaining dabs of light green paste. 

“Be _careful_ this time.” Your voice is a growl.

“Alright,” she breathes soothingly, and leans forward again.

Your shoulders tense, bracing for the flare of pain. Her movements are much more gentle than before. The ointment is carefully dabbed across the aching skin of your side. There’s a pulsation of pain at the contact. As expected. That damn burn really doesn’t like being touched. Biting your lip, your hands tighten into fists, forcing yourself to stay still.

“How are you feeling?” Her tone remains patient.

Conversation provides a slight distraction from the pain, so you unwillingly engage.

Slumping back, you let your head rest against the wall. “Coherent, I suppose. Awake.”

“I thought you would sound a little more pleased about that,” Omera remarks. “You’re not dancing along the brink of death anymore.”

“Well, the unfortunate reality of being alive means that I have to drink more of that disgusting herbal concoction. There’s _nothing_ to be happy about there.”

“That reminds me,” she murmurs, reaching into the deep pockets of her dress. “It’s time for your daily dose.”

The silver glint of a flask shines against the sunlight filtering in the dirty windows. A groan escapes your lips, but there is no other option. That foul-tasting drink is medicinal. One of the few things that helped you escape the infection’s relentless grip. It’s been a few days, but the wound is on the mend. You’ll only have to drink it for a little longer.

Unscrewing the flask, some of that gloopy grey liquid, flecked with spots of mouldy blue, sloshes into the cup. It smells horrible. Unable to stop, your face contorts into a grimace. Omera chuckles, earning another scathing glare from you, and presses the cup into your hands. The cuffs are still in place around your wrists, but now they are not looped through anything. It’s much more comfortable, and allows you to do some things yourself. Such as hastily gulp down this liquid that tastes like warm death. 

Once finished, she offers a cup of clear water. It’s a little bog-tasting, but nowhere near as awful as the previous drink. It sloshes around inside your mouth, before being spat onto the floorboards to your right. There’s enough left for a second gulp, which you swallow this time.

One of Omera’s dark eyebrows rise disbelievingly at the splattered mess. “Lovely.”

“I make no apologies,” you reply evenly. “I had to get rid of the taste somehow.”

“You could have asked for a basin.”

“Maybe. But that would have taken too long.”

Finally realising that her attempts to have you relent are going nowhere, she sighs again. This time it is a little less amused. “Can I get you anything to eat?”

“No.” Your head shakes. “I’m still not hungry.”

Concern replaces her previous irritation. “You have barely had a bite of anything since you got here. Food would be good for you.”

“Really, I’m not hungry.”

“It could make you less agitated.”

You can tell that this time, she will not give up.

Rolling your eyes, you settle back once again. “Fine. I’ll have some bread.”

“What about some krill?”

“ _Bread_. Carbohydrates are my safety net.”

Part of you expects her to push harder, but she doesn't. It seems that she will take the small win that she can get. “Wonderful. I’ll be right back.”

With a swish of her skirt against the back of her ankles, she is gone. In her absence, noise from the outer world begins to filter in. People shouting, children yelling. The hammering of construction. Glimpsing of clear conversation meet your ears when people mill past. You've caught enough snippets to know where you are, and what's going on.

_Sorgan._

The name makes your stomach twist. It's a little closer to your homeworld than you would usually venture. Still, it would be an extremely slim chance that someone would find you here. Although, counting on your recent spate of luck, that may not be as unlikely to occur as one would hope…

Well, first you'll have to survive the current situation that the Mandalorian has you embroiled in. Apparently, he'd signed on to help the villagers take down a group of raiders who kept pillaging their lands. You've been called a cynic plenty of times, but this is taking ‘chance’ to a _whole_ new level. The most advanced weaponry that these farmers have on hand is a stick and a rock taped together in the rough shape of a spear. Even with the Shock Trooper that's also enlisted to help, leading this lot to victory is not overly likely.

The Shock Trooper. _Yeah._ You'd seen her tattoo upon finally emerging from your fever haze. Both the one of her arm, and the small Rebel insignia on her cheek. She'd been standing in the doorframe as Omera mopped your sweating brow, speaking quietly with the Mandalorian. They appeared friendly, if mutedly so. From the looks that she kept tossing in your direction, he'd definitely filled her in on the whole "not trusting you" thing. No effort to engage had been made on your part. She hadn't recognised you. At least, not yet.

The dull scrape of shovels against dirt continues to seep in. Sighing, you give the restraints a small, experimental shake again. They don't break, but you don't expect them to. Gravel crunches underfoot as someone, or two sets of someone's, head in the direction of your hut. 

It's not a sound that any normal human would be able to hear. Your Garwian blood, courtesy of your mother's side, is what gives the sensory advantage. It's probably responsible for the fact that you didn't bleed out or die of infection either.

The Mandalorian's low, angered tone meets your ears as those sets of footfalls mount the steps. They've been keeping you in the storage hut. It's mostly a feeble supply of grain and oats, but at least it's well insulated on the cold nights. The door swings open, but you had already heard most of his line of conversation.

“I told you not to go in there alone, she’s dang-” He cuts off upon seeing you awake, that sly smirk already adorning your face.

“Dangerous? Is that what you were going to say?” you chuckle. “I’m flattered, _Mando_.”

You’ve started calling him that. Not in a friendly manner, but only because you can sense his sheer hatred of the mocking tone lacing your voice when you do. It’s what the others, those who like him and rely on him, call him. A sign of warmth and familiarity. But you’re twisting it, and it _grates_ on him.

Instead of answering, the Mandalorian only shadows the female farmer’s steps towards you. A plate is clasped in her hands, two thick slices of fresh crusty bread atop it. Your eyes are not on her, but leeringly fastened on the armoured man at her heels.

“Awwh,” you continue mockingly. “Look at that, Omera. He’s like a loyal _dog_.”

The vitriol is approaching dangerous levels today. He had made you feel feeble and helpless that other night in the cart. The need to take some of your pride back burned inside your chest. And it appears to be working.

Down at his sides, you can see his hands tightening into fists. You’ve struck a nerve. Unable to help yourself, a cold chuckle spills from your lips.

"Shut up," he snaps, with more anger than you've ever heard him display.

Eyes widening in delight, your laugh comes harder now. _There it is_. There's the response you've been looking for. A crack in the quiet humane persona that he plasters on whenever in _her_ presence.

“Stop it,” Omera commands sternly.

With another leering grin, you obey. It’s not that you actually listen to her. Rather… Some innate sense signals that the Mandalorian is reaching his breaking point. You've gotten what you wanted, a reaction. Part of your dignity back. It’s probably best to ease off a little. 

Usually, he is less reactive to your barbs. More stoic and in control of his low threats. It’s quite easy to glean what’s gotten him so riled up. 

The Mandalorian, despite his cold and robotic attitude, has developed quite the crush on the pretty widow. It feels sort of… Unnatural. He’s just so unsympathetic, so metal. It’s like if a _droid_ fell in-love. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that there is a breathing, feeling being under there. A human, most likely. From the appendages and flashes of skin you’ve glimpsed, he looks like one. Not that it means anything.

“Can I eat outside?” You suddenly ask. “I think that the fresh air would help with my appetite.”

The Mandalorian starts to refuse, at the same moment that Omera readily agrees. The two pause, exchanging looks with one another. A beat passes. He gives in. It's a bit of a struggle to mask your knowing grin, but it's better not piss him off while you’re in the process of getting what you want.

“I’ll take her,” he growls at Omera.

One doesn’t have to guess at why he doesn’t want her around. The Mandalorian is worried about more pointed remarks regarding his obvious affection. It’s kind of amusing that _those_ are the barbs that hold the most sway over him. You’ve said plenty of worse things.

Gentle hands, Omera's, guide you by the back as the Mandalorian seizes the hard metal tag between the cuffs and pulls you upright. A small hiss of discomfort escapes between your gritted teeth. Even if he had heard it, it's not likely that he would have cared. However, _she_ does.

"Be gentle!" Omera scolds. "She's only just back on her feet."

It feels like one of those glorious moments where Papa took your side in an argument over one of your brother's. This time, it's impossible to stop the gleeful smile from splitting your face. Having the protection of the woman the Mandalorian has a crush on. Now _that's_ hilarious. The world always has had a weird way of working out for you.

“Fine,” the Mandalorian sighs in pointed exasperation. 

His blaster presses into your back, forcing you to march outside. The sun is blinding at first. It’s been days since you were outside. Inhaling deeply, you breathe in the fresh air. It fills your lungs, washing across your face. 

This world is warm. It's comforting. Maybe not quite the backwater shithole that you had always been led to believe.

Something jars into the back of your shoulder. There's no quick glance required to know that it's the hard muzzle of the gun. It’s not enough to hurt, he’s keeping his word to Omera, but he’s definitely not happy about it. Stumbling slightly, you continue on, until he calls a halt at the bottom of the steps. It seems that this is as far as your leash extends. Seating yourself on the second lowest stair, one of your legs dangles down while the other remains braced on the final step.

Children are kicking a ball only a few metres away. The little green child is in the middle of their group. He's much smaller than the others, and nowhere near as quick. Wrinkled head twisting back and forth, he watches the game in curious interest. One little girl stays near him, holding his hand. Omera's kid. Winta, as you think she is called.

There's a hazy memory in your mind of your first night of arrival. Those wide brown eyes, exact replicas of her mother's, had stared at you from behind the safety of Omera's skirt. Undoubtedly, she had probably bore witness to your raging delirium. Fear had been evident across her face.

The sudden sound of a reverberating thud draws your attention back to the match. Just in time to notice the ball flying straight at your face. Air brushes as it passes, skimming your cheek as you duck to the side, before bouncing off the edge of the step. Momentum throws it straight up into the air, before crashing back to the ground at your feet. It rolls to a stop, pressing against your ankle. 

The children still instantly, watching your reaction in concern. Parents stop too, adopting worried expressions. They've likely all told their children to keep away from the Mandalorian’s prisoner. Not that you blame them. Papa had told you never to trust strangers also.

With a wry smile, you kick the ball back to the nearest boy. Relief instantly floods the clearing, and the game resumes. It's nice to watch. 

A plate is placed upon your lap. The bread. Omera passes at the same time, hand resting momentarily in your shoulder. As she starts to stride away, you find yourself calling out after her.

"Omera?"

Turning, her head tilts to the side, long dark brown hair spilling down her torso. "Yes?"

The Mandalorian's impassive scrutiny weighs heavily. Clearing your throat, you reply a little nervously. "Thank you."

Faint shock flits across her face. Nodding graciously, she spares on last lingering look for the Mandalorian, and leaves.

"Well," the Mandalorian speaks calmly, "you can be nice. That’s a surprise."

Feeling a tad defensive, you snap back a taut response. "She helped me."

"As did I."

"I didn't think that you really cared for my thanks."

There's a beat of silence as you wait for him to respond. "You're right. I don't."

Lifting one flaky slice of bread to your mouth, you take a bite. It's warm, maybe not long out of the oven. A golden haze of butter is melted across the top, bringing some much needed moisture into each bite.

In the distance, a group of adults are training. Your doubtful eyes track each clumsy movement of their spears, each shot of the blasters that goes too wide from its target. Licking your lips, you decide to voice the concern dwelling in your chest. "Do you really think that you're going to win this?" 

The Mandalorian does not move. "We have a good plan."

The bread tears underneath your deft fingers. "That's not what I asked. Look, these people… They're not fighters. That much is apparent, even at first glance."

"Omera's not bad with a blaster."

A sigh leaves your lips. "'Not bad' isn't going to cut it. You need people who are truly experienced. Trained." The suggestion hangs in the air between the two of you, so apparent that he cannot even pretend to ignore it.

"What? Someone like you?" His tone seethes with disbelief.

Squaring your shoulders, you lift determined eyes to bore into his visor, to where his own would reside behind the helmet's shield. "Yes."

"Sounds great," he scoffs. "I'll just take those cuffs off and put a weapon in your hands. Maybe give you back those gauntlets you’re so fond of. That doesn't sound counter-productive at all."

Lifting both arms up, one hand runs down your face in a show of tired exasperation. "Look, Mandalorian, I may not like you, but I owe you. What you said earlier was right… You _did_ help me. I'm aware that you could have thrown me off your ship on Nevarro or left me in the woods to die of infection. You didn't."

For once, he actually appears to contemplate your words. Only for a moment, before that helmet slowly shakes. "I can't trust you."

Anger simmers in your chest. "So you're just going to keep me locked up with no way to defend myself?" The skin at the base of your throat is burning.

"I'm sure you'll be fine. Whatever cloud of luck follows you has not dissipated just yet. Unfortunately."

Your hand twitches. _Asshole._ You were trying to be nice, to make some sort of amends. The urge to smash the plate into the side of his head is almost overwhelming. Sadly, it's not like it would do any good with that thick chunk of beskar protecting his skull.

"I've been told that you heal remarkably quickly," he says, unable to hide some slight curiosity. "Any reason for it?"

Not over his contemptuous words of mere moments ago, you do not offer any true insight. Just the barest hint of fact. "Resilient genetics, I guess. That could be something to keep in mind."

_And here you fucking are, back to your thinly veiled threats of yore._

"I'll be sure to."

His line of questioning is making you uncomfortable, and so, it's time for an attempt at turning the tables.

"Why are you even doing this?" you ask scornfully. "Putting that kid in danger for piss poor payment? That doesn't seem very responsible of you."

"Really?" The modulator distorts his loud scoff. "Are you implying that you have any role models of substance to compare me to? I heard you in your sleep, crying to your Papa and asking him why he left you."

Something blurs your vision. Pure, unadulterated rage. Your teeth grind together, fingernails digging into your skin. Small red crescent well upon your palms.

The words leave your lips in a barely audible hiss. " _Never_ speak of my father again."

It’s his turn to have struck a nerve, and you both know it. The verbal sparring match is over, with the final point granted to him. Gripping the edge of a slice of bread between your teeth, you tear it apart and occupy yourself with chewing rapidly. It's the only thing keeping the hoard of curses at bay.

Your eyes land back on the children. Their happy, carefree faces provide some distraction from the volcanic anger swirling within your torso. With everything going on, all the shit in the world, they are still playing. It makes you feel kind of… hopeful. You can sense the Mandalorian watching you, but refuse to look his way.

The shock of a lifetime occurs next. Honesty, for a moment, you're not completely sure that this is real. Maybe you're still rolling listlessly on the floor of his spaceship, sweating through your clothes and hallucinating scenarios that are not actually occurring, but not even in your wildest imagination would you have expected the Mandalorian to say what he does next.

"Shouldn't have said that." There's a hint of regret in his voice. It's not exactly an apology, but it's far more than you ever expected. When you did not answer, he hesitantly continues. "He died?" 

It's not actually a question.

You quietly nod, and then busy yourself with the rest of your food. A tense silence lapses over you both. The children are playing, but your attention keeps returning to that little green alien. The one that your warden is so keen to protect that he would turn his back on life and creed.

Now that you have a moment, your eyes return to the children happily playing, and the small green infant that so much mystery surrounds. As if finally noting your attention, those large black eyes fasten on your face. The brown shroud covering his body brushes the earth as he shuffles towards you. Something shifts to your left, beskar plates squeaking together, as the Mandalorian tenses. You try to ignore him, instead focusing on the kid coming to a stop merely a few feet away. Under the weight of his expectant gaze, you feel the need to say something. 

“Oh. Hey.” Caught mid-chew, the words are a garble. "How are you?”

The child does not answer, just continues to stare with those huge, soulful eyes. It’s hard not to think that he’s pretty cute. Head swaying uncertinaly between you and the Mandalorian, he takes another step closer. The infant comes to a halt at your knee. 

“Careful,” the Mandalorian cautions sternly.

“Seriously?” Your voice is filled with indignation. “Do you really think I’d hurt a kid?”

“Maybe.”

“Fuck you. I wouldn’t. I’ve _never._ ”

That impassive helmet shakes. “Good for you. Would you like a medal? A peace prize of some kind?”

“You’re such a prick,” you mutter back.

“Stop cursing so much.”

“Would you prefer that I use those ridiculous family-friendly words such as ‘kriff’ and ‘dank farrick?' Stars, just say ‘ _fuck._ ’ It’s not that hard, and it's way less embarrassing.”

"We're guests here. There are children around."

_Alright. Just potentially, he has a point._

There's a light shuffle as the kid moves even closer again, recapturing your attention. Carefully clambering up two steps, he now stands on the very one that you are seated on, situated in-between yourself and the Mandalorian. Those long green ears are tilted up in an expression of contentment, the beginnings of a smile on his face. You can see the little square teeth inside his mouth. 

Taking another bite of bread, you smile at him, cheeks puffing outward. A giggle emerges from his mouth as he watches you chew.

 _Yeah. You have to admit that the little fucker_ _is pretty adorable._

That is, until his small hand shoots between into your mouth to grasp the mushed-up ball of food between your teeth. There’s a wet splatter as his arm jerks back, yanking the half-eaten glob of food from your mouth. It’s there, clasped securely in his little green fist. And, then he crams it into his own mouth.

“Ugh!” Aghast, you recoil back as far as you can. “What the fuck?! That is _disgusting."_

The little alien chews experimentally, and then swallows deeply. Another noise of revulsion comes from your chest. It’s echoed by the Mandalorian, who has twisted away with his arms raised, as if to almost ward away the memory from ingraining itself in his mind. Staring at the kid, he slowly shakes his head.

“And I thought that the frog was bad,” the Mandalorian mutters, sounding suitably appalled.

The child’s eyes flicker to the remaining chunk of bread on your plate, and then back to your face again. As clearly as if he’d spoken the words aloud, you know what he’s after. 

_No fucking way. That is not happening._

“Stop it,” you reply, waving your cuffed hands sternly before his face. “I’m not… I’m not your mom. It's not happening.” Casting around, your attention catches on Omera. “Go ask her to do it!”

Although his eyes follow the direction of your point, they quickly return to you. Not knowing what else to do, you offer the child that last remaining piece on your plate. He stares at it for a hard second, and then toddles away. Apparently, it is not as appetising when you haven’t chewed it up for him like some kind of mother bird. 

Not knowing where else to look, your bemused gaze meets the Mandalorian’s dark visor. He stares back, and the air feels heavy with the weight of your confusion. And then it shatters as a small, uncontrollable giggle escapes your lips. There is a low rumble in response. A slight chuckle. From the Mandalorian himself.

_Well, you never would have guessed that the cold bastard was capable of feeling a shred of genuine amusement._

You tell him as much, trying to soften the relationship between the two of you. Butter him up a little, as they say, so that he considers releasing you from the tight grip of the handcuffs so that you aren't murdered by rampaging raiders.

Unfortunately, all it does is earn you a one way trip back inside the storage hut. Still very much in those fucking cuffs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments and kudos so far. As always, your support is always so appreciated. I have received some lovely words of kindness and encouragement these past few weeks that have served to motivate me to sit down and write, even when I'm grumpy and having a shit day. They always serve to put a smile on my face and increase my mood.
> 
> I know that I have yet to respond to anyone who left a comment on the previous chapter. Last week was quite busy, and right now I am editing and uploading this when I am meant to be working. A great use of company time, I think? I figured that you may not mind another chapter uploaded when I could get to it. However, I need to get back to work as I have a few things to do before the business day ends. Please know, I have seen all of those sweet things that you have written, and will be replying very soon! I don't want anyone to think I don't appreciate you taking the time to engage, as I certainly do. :)
> 
> I was rocking out to the following song when writing this:  
> Venom - Icon for Hire

“No,” Winta replies with a stern shake of her head. “Moma said not to listen to you.”

“Parents are not always correct. You’ll learn that when you get older. Now, I’m going to up my offer to _twenty_ credits. _Wow!_ That’s more than enough to buy something nice, right? All you have to do is take the cuffs off.” Your eyes scan over the rest of the children huddling against the opposite wall. “This offer is open to all, by the way. Think of all the sweet rolls you could buy.”

The sounds of fighting are raging outside the storage hut. Screams, explosions, and blaster shots. Bursts of red and green lights flash through the window, lighting the night sky. A particularly large tremor shakes the ground and the encompassing walls. Cries come from the kids, wails of fear. Desperately, you try to shush them, get them to quiet down. With raiders spilling through the dusty streets of the village, such noise would surely draw them here. 

Unfortunately, your small residence had been elected as the place to hide the children, being more sturdily built than the other structures. At least you had company. Even if it was a group of completely terrified kids. It was a change from only speaking to Omera or the Mandalorian anyhow.

"Look," you try again, attempting to sound soothing. "Your village needs as much help as it can get. I'm a…" W _hat's a word that they will understand, but also won't give them nightmares?_ "I'm an ex-soldier. Just like Cara Dune." _Definitely not, but they hardly need to know._ "I can help. You need to trust me."

Another blast shakes the small building. Dust rains down from the ceiling. Every small face in the room looks up in terror, afraid that the ceiling is about to cave in. You do too, only for a steady stream of dirt to land directly in your nose and eyes. _Fuck._ A loud sneeze, half-screamed, bursts from your lips. Shocked, one little girl starts sobbing. _Why are you so fucking awful with children?_

"Fuck- I mean, _stars_ , it's okay, calm down..."

You've been taking what the Mandalorian said to heart, and trying not to curse as much. Especially before the kids. It’s not always effective. _Hard to teach an old dog new tricks, as they say._ Except you’ve never met a dog, so you wouldn’t know.

“Come on,” you urge again. Almost desperately. “I’ll help protect you. I _promise_ that you can trust me.” 

After a moment's deliberation, one little boy rises, as if to make his way over and release you from the restraints. 

"Don't!" Winta interjects. "We're not to listen to her. Moma told me that she pretends to be nice, but she's actually trying to trick us. She's mean."

"Omera said that?" you ask, aghast. "I thought that we were... Fuck, what a _bitch._ "

Her daughter's glare grows even more hostile. 

"Sorry," you relent, holding up your cuffed hands in concession. "Shouldn't have said that, even if it's true."

Another blast rocks the precarious walls. The children scream at an ear-splitting pitch. Unable to stop yourself, you once again swear loudly. _Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!_ They were going to get you all killed, unless you could get out of this hell-hole first. Voice harsh with desperation, you try again, attempting to prompt any of them to ignore Winta and undo the restraints locking your hands together. It’s a simple mechanism, but triggered by a pointed touch that there’s no conceivable way to hit at this angle. That’s why they’re so damn effective. None of them shift an inch this time, too panicked at your hard tone. _Deep breath. Calm down._

As little as you liked to admit it, Omera was right. _Sort of._ The plan upon being granted your freedom was not exactly to go storming out there and help save the day. The Mandalorian had already shut down any good intentions. Now, there was a very different desire in operation. 

If you could just get out - just escape - you could make it back to the Mandalorian's Razor Crest. Stealing a ship wouldn't be a problem. You'd done it dozens of times previously. As for the village… Well, they could deal with this shitstorm on their own. Omera may have healed you, but that was at your insipid captor's behest. None of it was done out of compassion for you. Her words to her daughter had only proved that.

You'd _liked_ Omera. It was a mistake you should never have been stupid enough to make. People have always disappointed you. It was simply how it had always been. To hope for something more was plain idiotic. 

_Stupid girl._ It’s Ramley’s voice this time. Your brother sneers in the recesses of your mind. The only place that he can exist anymore, since the harsh blade of your bracers had perforated his throat years ago. His face looms threateningly before your eyes. Trying to concentrate, to shove him away, your eyes squeeze closed. The last thing you want is to die and be reunited with that _prick_. 

Something prods your brain, forcing Ramley back into the shadows. 

Your gaze is drawn to the kid. The one that the Mandalorian brought here. That odd little green alien. _He’s watching you._ Once again, that strange sensation crosses your mind. Like a feather brushing over your thoughts, stirring them smoothingly. There’s a sort of warmth emanating from him. Your brow creases in confusion, as the faintest hints of suspicion well in your chest. Those short arms lift, outstretched toward you as he leans, desperately trying to get closer. A hard lump catches in your throat, as an odd feeling of protectiveness wells in your chest.

A rapid thudding of heavily approaching footfalls seizes your attention. The door to the hut crashes open, flying back against the wall with a resounding bang. There's no coherent thought. Just a burning desire that screams through every inch of your body, rising in crescendo with the terrified cries of the children around you. _Protect the kids._ You’re not entirely sure what’s influencing you, be it your own (at times skewed) moral compass, or that foreign, encouraging sensation pushing your thoughts.

The first raider storms past the shuddering frame. You move before even realising. Off the ground, rushing forward. The cuffs still securely around your wrists don't even register. A gun levels in the centre of your chest as the horned man notices the rapid approach. It's too late for him. Days of rest have returned the majority of your strength, and it's hard to ignore the energy pounding in your veins, spurring you on viciously.

Launching into the air, you spin. One foot lashes into his face, knocking him staggering backward. As soon as your toes touch the ground, the other foot rises to connect heavily with his stomach, sending him sprawling. The blaster in his hands fires wildly, singing red light only narrowly missing your face. Something gives down around your wrists. A sudden sense of freedom. The shot had gone directly between the metal tag connecting the cuffs on each arm, snapping them apart. They dangle from your wrists now, as tight metal bracelets still chafing your skin. It's still _far_ better than still being tied up.

Using your momentary distraction, the raider has struggled upright once more. His fists rushes for the side of your temple. It jars against your forearms, lifted at the last moment to defend yourself. A swift knee pumped into his midriff sends him staggering back. He tries to lift the gun in his other hand, but the movement is too slow. 

Pushing past his rising arm, you twist, sending your elbow flying into his throat. A rough gargle bursts from his lips as the air rushes from his body. Your hands settle around either side of his neck, one on his chin, one on the opposite side of his throat, teeth bared in a feral sneer. In one hard motion, you jerk your arms. His neck snaps with an echoing crack. Those eyes flare momentarily wide, before sinking closed.

Standing there, you draw a long breath into your lungs. There's a slight throb in your side, but nothing like before. One hand falls to the scarred skin of your waist, searching for any dampness of blood. There’s nothing. It’s dry. Say what you will about Omera, but her care was effective. Over your shoulder, a small whimper sounds from the rear of the hut.

_Shit. The kids._

You hadn't exactly meant to murder a raider right before their eyes. _Well._ There was nothing to be done about it now. Dealing with the resulting nightmares would be their parents’ job, and not yours. Still, the tiniest bit of guilt nagged at your gut.

Breathing slowly, you turn. Their expressions rely only utter terror. Winta clutches the little green kid close to her chest. Her dark eyes wide with fear. With a flare of savage amusement that’s entirely inappropriate, you can’t help but wonder if she regrets calling you mean now. The infant in her arms just watches you, log triangular ears perked upwards. Strangely, you get an impression radiating from him. A sense. He's not scared of you, though he may be the only one. Instead, he seems… _Proud_? There's no time to think on it.

Holding your hands up placatingly, you survey the children. "It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you. I told you so already." 

From outside, there is a loud screech of metal, and another enormous blast. Your gaze is drawn outward, to the source of the noise. The desire to run is strong. No one would notice you leaving, making your way back to the Mandalorian's ship. This was your chance, what you had been hoping for. Common sense is screaming at you to unhesitatingly rush for your freedom, but as another raider bounds up the steps to the hut, you know that you can't just leave. 

A harsh curse leaves your lips. It doesn't matter to you if the children hear it. You're saving their lives, after all. And it looks like you’re sticking around to see it to the end. Being a good person is _exhausting_. 

The fallen pillager’s blaster recoils in your hands. A jet of blazing scarlett smacks into the approaching hostile’s face, sending him carneering off the steps. His body sprawls into the dusty earth of the village streets, rolling and rolling before coming to a halt. Smoke rises off his form as he lies face down in the street. A few moments pass. He does not move again. Dead. _Alright._

Eying the children, you issue a command in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “Stay here. Use some of those crates to block the door.” And then, down you go. _Into the fray._

***

Bodies litter the earth. In the dim light, it’s hard to tell if they are villagers or raiders. There are some fires nearby, the roofs of distant hints tinged in a writhing orange haze. Smoke is slowly filling the air, catching in your lungs. Lifting an arm to your mouth, you cough harshly into your elbow, chest adjusting itself to the soot and ash swirling all around. There are no jagged sharps of serrated steel lining your forearms. The Mandalorian had stripped your bracers long ago. They were likely back on the Razor Crest, along with the rest of your gear. Along with…

A shape rushes out of the darkness. Jerking your weapon upwards, you only manage to avoid pulling the trigger on Omera. Her face is wild, filthy, streaked with concern. Before you can ask what’s wrong, another figure detaches itself from the shadows to your right. This time, the firelight illuminates the mottled maw of a salivating raider. Your shot catches him in the chest, sending him tumbling out of sight. Omera crashes into your chest at the same time, hands frantically scraping down her arms. 

“Are they alright?!” Her voice is filled with frantic terror. “Is Winta alright?”

“The kids are fine,” you retort sharply, shoving her aside to knock back another charging pillager. As he hits the ground, you stomp on his head, hard. There’s a crunch as his skull gives way, and the hem of your trousers suddenly feels wet. Making a face, you try not to think about what’s now coating the fabric. “They’re in the storage hut. It was breached, but they’re fine. I took care of it.”

Her eyes are wide as she takes in the words, chest heaving. One hand flutters up to hand over her heart. “Thank you.”

Your shoulders pull taut in a shrug of forced non-chalance. “Don’t mention it. But thanks for telling your kid that I was a bitch, though.”

There is a beat of uncomfortable silence. “I didn’t say _that._ It's just... I was trying to-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you snap, leaning down to snatch a discarded knife from the ground. “If you want to go back there, I’ll send whoever I find to join you.”

For all of your good deeds today, you were a little too annoyed to be around her. Call it juvenile, but her words had wounded those feelings that you liked to pretend you didn’t have. Omera had been the closest thing to a friend that you’d had in a while. It was uncomfortable to be around her now, having realised that you’d misconstrued her civility for kindness.

“Alright,” she says softly, and then her quiet footfalls disappear into the night.

Straightening with a sigh, you look onwards. It’s easy to see where the fighting is concentrated. The gunshots and explosions are all coming from there, not to mention the massive AT-ST rising above the huts separating you from the centre of the battle. _So that’s what’s been making all of the racket._

As you watch, it suddenly drops out of view. It’s not as if it fell, it didn’t keel over and collapse, it just pummets. There’s no time to put more thought into what’s happening. Raiders are beginning to break through the lines, running through the streets. While all are tall and powerfully built, they are still small-planet bandits. Nothing compared to a former Imperial assassin. Nothing compared to the daughter of a warlord.

Finally reaching a group of villagers fighting a handful of hostiles, you skid to a halt, throwing yourself into the mix with reckless abandon. Having been faced with the relatively inexperienced locals, none of the assailants are prepared for you to blitz through them, barely stopping for breath before downing another. Adrenaline is pounding through your body as you finally stagger to a halt, battle frenzy stirred within your chest. _It’s good to be back at your peak._

“I need a group back towards the hut!” Your roar thunders over the silently watching villagers. “The children need defense.”

You think that they might look at you doubtfully, that they will not believe you. It’s surprising when they respond instantly, shouting acceptance as a group breaks off to rush in the direction that you just came from. A small smile rises on your lips while watching them scurry away. 

There should not be many more visitors to the storage hut. Not with most of the attackers who had breached the front now dead at your feet. For now, the children are safe. And it’s largely thanks to you. 

Doing an utterly selfless thing is an unusual sensation, but you cannot deny that it feels good. The villagers watching you with respect, as they had mere moments ago, also felt good. And you’re not willing to let that admiration slip away just yet. 

Arriving, you are just in time to watch the AT-ST, stuck in the watery trenches, explode into a fiery blaze. Scraps of debris and twisted metal wrent the sky, plummeting down like rain. Lifting one arm above your head, you watch as the defeated raiders begin to flee back into the forests.

Your torso is heaving with exertion. Having reached the epicentre so late, it feels as if you just ran a marathon for nothing. Slightly disappointed, you simply bring your heavy blaster back to brace against your trembling side, as the triumphant shouts of the villagers fill the starred sky.

Your gaze is drawn to something glinting, emerging from the murky bed of water that the smoldering AT-ST still lies in. Water cascades down the Mandalorian’s smooth armour. He is followed by a smiling Cara Dune. Both are filthy, covered in a smeared mix of mud and other river gunk. _Ah._ Of course they would be responsible for downing the AT-ST. It wasn’t like any of these farmers would have been capable.

Upon catching sight of you, she freezes momentarily, before nudging an elbow into his side pointedly. He shifts, following the direction of her eyes. Caught under the scrutiny of both their gazes, you stiffen. A tension settles over the three of you, although it is abruptly broken mere moments later.

A group of celebrating villagers surrounds them, distracting their attention from you. Feeling oddly alone now in the mix of it all, your eyes fall to the ground. The toe of one boot scuffs the earth, tracing thick lines in the dirt-lined street. Your hand, the one not gripping the blaster, falls to rest on the knife precariously held against your waist by the hard leather of your belt. 

It’s pretty, an ivory handle and blade made of the same cold material. Not metal, but potentially an animal fang, or a tusk?

Lost in thought, and separated from everyone else, you are the only one to notice when a shadowy figure slips into the corner of the clearing. At first, you think that it could be another villager. Maybe some of those sent to guard the children. A chill runs down your spine when you see that it _isn’t._

That towering, hulking frame. A mashed face of light blue skin and jagged fangs. Another raider, standing between you and the ignorantly celebrating crowd. And this one does not go to slip silently away like the rest. Lost to his sight in the shadows, you watch, curious to see what he’ll do next. 

One arm extends, raising the muzzle of his weapon directly at the Mandalorian. If he shoots him, your problems in Sorgan might just come to an end _. If_ the Mandalorian dies, you can take the ship with ease, and get away from this place. The Shock Trooper would be too busy trying to stop the panic to notice you. Even if he lives, it’s the distraction that you’ve longed for. _All you need to do is simply do nothing at all._

But for some unfathomable reason, you just _can’t._

A low, irritated hiss escapes your lips. “ _Fuck_.” Maybe you’ll come to regret this later. Only time will tell.

The knife in your fingers launches through the air like a rocket, striking the raider in the centre of his chest. A burst of dark blood spurts his torso, the force of the strike knocking him back.

His arm shudders, blaster clattering from his hands. Legs buckling, a garbled shout of suprise and pain leaves his mangled lips. Thudding heavily onto the ground, you watch as he curls in on himself. The position is childlike. Fetal. Blood trickles out the side of his mouth. Those watery eyes glaze over and become glassy and unseeing.

You’re aware of someone watching you. Not just one set of eyes, but many. The villagers are staring in a mixture of admiration and sudden uncertainty. Their appreciation for your earlier help has faded into something more conflicted and cautious. Reflected in their faces are all the warnings that they were given about you. Even Cara Dune watches you carefully, her grip on the blaster in her hands adjusting. But there is just one gaze, always heavier than the rest, that is missing. 

The Mandalorian has turned, taking in the fallen hostile mere paces from him, before raising his helmeted gaze to where you stand, metres away, arm still poised in the aftermath of the throw. Uncomfortably, you shift nervously, standing tall under the suspicious eyes. All radiate some kind of anxiety, except for him. It’s… strange. Usually, he is the one who reviews you with the most animosity. Now, there’s something different. The world shifts away until it is just you and him, staring motionlessly at some another, with the weight of understanding heavy upon your shoulders. _You saved him._

Maybe not quite. That beskar is pretty durable. But you could have taken the chance, let the raider shoot him. And you didn’t. That means something, even if neither of you are exactly sure of what that is yet.

That inscrutable helmet finally moves, jerking down into the smallest of nods. It is a simple, unspoken statement. But one that signals the slightest of shifts in the paradigm between you, and has everyone else’s trepidatious eyes ease in their scrutiny.

_Thank you._

The tension reels back. A sigh of relief leaves your lips. Laughter and shouts start up once more, celebrations of victory. Lifting your gaze to the sky, the stars above are greedily drunk into your eager mind. Your eyes settle on one, blinking a little brighter than the rest. You don’t need a map to know what planet it is. _Home._

A languid approaching pace catches your attention. The Mandalorian is coming your way, stepping through the throngs of thankful villagers. Hands reach for him, words of gratitude falling across the shining silver of his armour. A small simmer of envy grows in your chest, quickly quenched as he comes to an abrupt halt slightly before you.

You had thought that maybe he’d come to voice his thanks in person. No such chance.

“How did you get out of the cuffs?” One gloved hand gestures to the thick silver bangles still sliding across your wrists. Each has a singed corner, the result of that lucky blaster shot breaking their connector. 

You could tell him the truth, that it was pure fluke and you’d narrowly avoided being shot again. But what good would that do? It was about time you got some respect in these parts, after all the shit you’d gone through tonight. So, instead, your lips curve upwards in a sly smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know my tricks? A lady never tells.”

A few moments of silence pass as he struggles to formulate a response to your sultry tone, one crafted to purposely distract him and shake his usual impassiveness. “Could you have escaped them the whole time?” There is the slightest bit of uncertainty to his voice now, filtering through no matter how hard he tries to mask it. 

And it’s _too good_ to just give up.

Still wearing that coy grin, you take another step closer. His shoulder stiffen, but he doesn’t move. To take a step back would be a concession. One of your hands lift, fingertips brushing his chestplate. “Maybe. But I suppose now we’ll never know. Mind being a dear, and taking them off all the way?”

His voice comes back as a low growl. “I have another set. We could always try it out again.”

Your eyebrows rise mockingly. “That’s very suggestive of you, Mandalorian. I never thought I’d see the day.”

That helmet shakes in exasperation. “Not what I meant, and you know it.” 

Gaze angling down, those gloved hands slowly lift from his side, settling gently on your wrist. After a moment of fidgeting, one cuff drops from your wrist. A disbelieving breath catches in your throat. His gentle hand slowly lifts your other arm, unwrapping your fingers from around the blaster’s hilt and dropping it to the ground, before ridding you of the remaining restraint. Night air wraps around your bare, raw skin. Goosebumps erupt down your body. They have nothing to do with the chill of this world. 

Swallowing heavily, your eyes drag back to his visor. They are greeted by your own face, eyes widened in a mixture of confusion and wonder, reflected in the dark glass of his helm. It’s now that you realise just how close you have drawn.

“I’m not a prisoner anymore?” Your words are barely louder than a whisper. 

Despite the jokes of moments ago, you’d never expected him to release you so easily. A large amount of bargaining and pleading had been anticipated. When the Mandalorian shakes his head again, this time in solemn agreement, you can barely believe it.

“No,” he answers, in that low, smooth rasp. “You’re not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nomad not knowing how to deal with children gives me so much amusement. I love that socially awkward ex-assassin.
> 
> I promise that Nomad and Mando will get more one on one time soon! Sorgan was a hurdle that we needed to overcome for her to be out of cuffs and him slightly more trusting. (Though don't worry, plenty of more barbs and harsh banter still to come!)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day, my darlings!
> 
> As usual, thank you for all your kudos and lovely comments of encouragement. I am glad that so many of you seem to be enjoying the story. Hopefully it continues that way!
> 
> Well, I won't keep you. Have a read on the below. And btw, I'm not a 'Y/N' person, I prefer to use blanks as I personally feel that it doesn't disrupt the flow as much. So '______' stands for your name. :)

Leaning against the entrance of the hut, your arms are neatly folded over your chest. The black tips of your boots shine in the warm sunlight. They were cleaned by a grateful villager the other day, along with the rest of your attire. Having had nothing else to change into during the time, one of the other farmers, a woman of similar size and shape to you, had leant you a roughly spun grey dress and pair of sandals. You’d felt out of place the _whole_ day. It was a relief when they had finally returned your clothes.

Being back in your usual back ensemble makes you feel better. Even if their washing has caused some of the dye to leak from your cape. The insignia hidden underneath it is now slightly more visible, but no one seems to have noticed. _Yet._ While you’re not sure that many from this backwater town would recognise the crest, there is also the chance that the Mandalorian might. Or, more likely, that the Shock Trooper would.

Speaking of those two, Cara Dune is currently seated on a crate and propped against the wall of the hut that has been the Mandalorian's residence since arriving. And also yours, after they elected to allow you to leave the rickety storage building as another reward for helping save the town. Being able to sleep on a bed was divine, even if the matress had been fluffed with straw that made your nose itch. Whatever. It wasn't like you hadn't slept on worse in the past.

You’re standing close to Cara, on the opposite side of the doorframe to the Mandalorian. He is firmly stationed across the rocky porch. Silent, as usual, with his the silver helmet covering his head intently angled towards the children at play. Particularly, toward the small child that he brought here. The one that the Empire want so very desperately. And you're starting to have a sneaking suspicion as of why. Your eyes run over his little form, assessing him for any indicator that the path your thoughts are trekking down may be correct. There's nothing. His attention is gleefully on the other children.

In the aftermath of the battle, a sense of peace and normalcy has spread over this small village once again. It’s something that the three of you, different people but all so exposed to war and conflict, are unused to. It draws you in, making you wonder what life could have been like if your childhood had been different. If your father treated all his children equally, if your brothers didn’t despise you… If Papa hadn’t made the choice that he did. If he’d _stayed alive._

There’s a rustle from behind as Omera emerges from the hut’s darkened interior. The light breeze twists her long dark hair around her shoulders. Two steaming mugs are clasped in her hands. Cara takes the one that she offers with a murmur of thanks. The Rebellion soldier is a bit more at ease now, visible in her languid pose. There is a small smile on her lips as she watches the kids. 

A polite cough catches your attention. Omera is beside you, extending the other mug. Her attention, however, is not solely on you. Her eyes keep flickering to the beskar-clad man only paces away. Your arms remain staunchly folded across your torso. To take it from her would feel like a concession. As if you were signalling that her words were being forgiven. Which they certainly were _not._

Eventually, she steps back. A small flush colours her cheeks. _Good. She should feel embarrassed._ Your cold eyes track the motions as she slides closer to the Mandalorian, seeking the comfort of his presence. _Stars_. The two of them are insufferable around one another. The interactions are almost juvenile. Everything they do is romanticised to an unnecessary degree. _Like, seriously?_ Just say that you want to fuck and get it over with. It’s really not that hard.

Their unspoken affection for one another doesn’t bother you, except for the fact that the Mandalorian is your ticket off this planet. Taking a few weeks to lay low here hadn’t been a bad idea. It was relaxing, an easy life surrounded by grateful people who brought you spotchka whenever you asked, but not one that you want forever. The concern is that he may not want to leave. And she wants him to stay. That much is obvious.

Omera’s eyes switch from the kid, and back to the Mandalorian with a gentle smile. “He’s very happy here.”

The Mandalorian’s head dips in agreement. “He is.”

“Fits right in,” she agrees with a murmur, and with another soft smile meant solely for him, she departs.

As slyly as possible, the middle finger of one hand lifts slightly from your chest, directed at her back. She doesn’t notice, but you can feel the weight of another set of eyes. Following the sensation, your gaze locks on Winta. The little girl has paused in what she’s doing. A fearless glare is directed your way. It almost makes you chuckle. _Feisty kid._ One of your eyes swiftly drops into a sly wink. That appears to infuriate her even more. 

Her arm raises and returns the gesture that you just gave her mother. A snort of laughter bubbles in your throat as Omera, having caught sight of her daughter’s action, rushes to scold her. _Brilliant. Fucking brilliant._ Your chuckle is hidden in a loud cough. Of course Omera panicked seeing the action. She wouldn’t want the Mandalorian to think that his child would pick up _such rude habits_ if he stayed.

Cara Dune speaks suddenly, drawing your attention back to your companions. “So what happens if you take that thing off?” One brawny arm gestures to the Mandalorian’s helmet. “Do they come after you and kill you?”

It was an explanation that you had been curious to ask yourself. The distance between you and him made it hard to broach the subject. It wasn’t like you exactly _talked,_ even after saving his life. Cara, having seemingly become a fast friend, has no issue broaching the topic.

“No,” the Mandalorian tells her. “You just can’t ever put it back on again.”

Confusion furrows your brow. Seeming to catch your expression, his head turns to towards yours. There is that motion again, the almost imperceivable tilt of his helmet. Asking without voicing the words.

“It’s nothing,” you reply, not wanting to give too much away. When the pressure of his hidden gaze does not relent, you try a relaxed shrug, and eventually answer loosely. “I knew another Mandalorian. A long time ago, when I was a child. He took off his helmet all the time.”

The one standing opposite you pauses, absorbing the information, before answering. “Maybe he wasn’t a real Mandalorian.”

You have no desire to argue, as doing so may inadvertently reveal more information about your life, and so you concede. Just this once. For the sake of your past. And with a Shock Trooper sitting right next to you, for the sake of your life. _But he was a real Mandalorian. And he had been kind to you._ It feels like a betrayal to not defend him. “Maybe.”

“So… That’s it?” Cara continues the earlier line of conversation. “You can just slip off the helmet and settle down with that beautiful young widow, raising your kid and sipping spotchka.”

There’s temptation in the Mandalorian’s silence. You feel the need to interject with a tone of pointed dismissal. If _only_ to make it clear that you think it’s a spectacularly dumb idea. “Yeah, and spending days trying to get the stink of krill out of your clothes. Sounds _lovely._ Where do I sign up?”

“I’m not going to stay.” His voice is calm, yet there is a slight colouring of annoyance. “We raised hell here. That’s too much excitement for a backwater town. Word travels fast. It’s probably time to move on.”

 _Thank the stars._ Some common sense, finally. The very last thing that you need is someone pulling up after you, be they from the Bounty Hunters’ Guit, the remnants of the Empire, or officers of the New Republic. _Fuck._ The list of people who would happily murder you just seems to be growing longer by the damn day. At times, you forget that most of the galaxy would happily see you dead. 

And yet…

“I wouldn’t want to be the one who has to tell him,” Cara murmurs, her gaze fixed on something amidst the throng of local children.

It’s the kid again. The Mandalorian’s one. The others are all around him, laughing and giggling, dangling those bright blue fish in the air. He is smiling, small contented coos emerging from his mouth. Those big dark eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them. He looks _happy_. Deep in your chest, you feel the barest tinges of guilt for your relief. For how staunch you’ve been against the idea of remaining here. 

As you watch, he suddenly trips on the hem of his shroud and topples face-first into the dirt. Dust billows around him. If it was any other kid, it might have been kind of funny. But for some reason, it’s just _not_. The steps clatter underneath your quick footfalls as you lurch down. 

Of course, Omera is immediately there to scoop him from the ground. Having still been having a stern conversation with Winta, she was mere paces away when it happened. You expect him to immediately calm in her arms, lulled by how utterly _wonderful_ she is. After all, both the Mandalorian and Cara Dune seem to think so, while you are still hung up on what she said to her daughter. That’s why it fills you with overwhelming joy to watch the child struggle against her hold. 

Face twisted in upset, he strains away. It’s obvious that he is not quite satisfied with this woman’s attempts to comfort him. _The Mandalorian better be watching this._ The helplessness on Omera’s face fills you with twisted glee. And then it only gets _better._ The child registers your approach. Immediately, he changes angle. Those little arms outstretch to you as the shrieks increase in volume. 

Something tugs in your chest, a warmth that you quickly bury.

You don’t ask permission before plucking him from her arms. Defeated, she does not even try to hold on. A wry chuckle escapes your lips as he settles against your chest, fingers twisting into the high neck of your shirt's collar. His other hand goes into his mouth. The crying had quietened almost immediately. Some occasional hiccups still wrack his little chest.

“I think he likes me better,” you tell Omera pointedly, loud enough that the Mandalorian is sure to hear. “He _certainly_ wasn’t too keen on you.”

Her mouth sets into a taut line. Your eyes rest on her face, brow lifting mockingly. At the same time, three wet fingers touch your face. _Gross_. The kid has taken his hand back out of his mouth, and is now stroking your cheek with it. _This is fucking disgusting._ You’ve seen that child swallow _live frogs._

A snort rings out from back on the hut’s porch. The Mandalorian is watching, along with Cara. She is openly laughing, amused by the resigned horror written across your features. While the Mandalorian voices no sign of entertainment, it is all too apparent in the slight shake of his broad shoulders. Your gaze narrows at them both. The child continues to caress your face with his damp fingers. 

Turning your eyes back to meet his, you sigh loudly. “Why do you do this? And why do you only do these things to _me?”_

He doesn’t answer. Probably can’t. Not a single word of Galactic Basic has never emerged from him, though you suspect that he understands it well enough. 

Clearing her throat softly, Omera speaks for him, a little hesitantly. “He trusts you.”

There’s that pull in your chest again. Longing mixes with guilt. “He shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You saved him. Along with all the other children.”

“That wasn’t…” Pausing, you can’t help but wonder why you’re admitting this. Maybe it’s because you want to make him _understand_. “It wasn’t entirely selfless.”

You are _not_ a good person. Not a hero. He shouldn’t rely on you. You’ll only let him down.

The trusting touch of his tiny hands becomes nearly unbearable. Something inside of you strains, bringing with it a melancholy pining. You can’t hold him anymore. It will only serve to make things more complicated.

With unusual gentleness, you crouch to place him back on the ground. He doesn’t move off immediately. Just lingers, one small palm resting on the fabric of your trouser as he continues to hold your gaze. As your foot extends to nudge him off, you swallow thickly. Those vast lengths of ears wilt. With one last mournful look, he shuffles away. 

_It’s for the best._ As soon as you get far enough away, you’ll be departing his company. The child shouldn’t grow too attached to you. It would just make it harder on him.

A few seconds pass before Omera hesitantly speaks again. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Being somewhat distracted, at first you don’t realise what she is referring to. “Hmm?”

“When I told Winta that you were mean. You helped save us. I know that you could have run. It was good of you not to.”

Shaking your head, your lips curl upwards into a wry smile. “It’s alright. _I am_ mean. You’d do well not to forget that.” Pausing, the next words come slowly. “And… Stop trying to pressure him to stay.” Although you don't voice a name, it's quite clear who you are referring to.

Her shoulders visibly tense. “Meanwhile, you’re allowed to continue attempting to convince him to leave?” She’s not as soft as the rest like to believe. And even after it all, you _like_ that about her.

With a curt laugh, you incline your head, fixing sharp eyes fixing onto her face. “Yes. He doesn’t put any stock in what I have to say. He knows that it's all self-serving. Nothing that _I_ say will affect his decision. But _your_ words might.So just... Leave it alone. Or else you'll have me to deal with, because I don't want to be stuck here. And I can _promise_ that it wouldn't be a scenario that you'd like either."

 _Look at you. A sage of wisdom. Soon you’ll be sitting on a mountaintop giving advice to weary travellers. Serene and knowing, if_ _not for the thinly veiled threat at the end._

That part may need some work.

No answer comes from her lips. Victorious, you turn. Crumbling earth scuffs underneath your boots, dulling their newly polished shine. The cloak falling from your shoulders twists in the breeze as you mount the few small steps back to the hut’s entrance. The pendant thuds lightly against your neck, unusually cold given the external temperature. Eyes prickle your skin, but at this stage you are well used to the attention.

All the same, there is that one pointed gaze that never fails to prickle your temper. He always watches you as if examining some sort of specimen. It’s _extremely_ irritating. Hands falling to your hips, you glare at the Mandalorian brazenly. “Anything I can help you with?” 

“No.” Those wide shoulders rise and fall in a stoic shrug. “Just surprised that you even have a shred of maternal instinct.”

“Oof,” you respond, pushing past him to disappear back into the interior. “I know that’s what gets you hot under the helmet, Mando. Don’t go falling in-love with me too.”

There is a loud spluttering as Cara chokes on her sip of spotchka. No growled retort echoes from the confines of that helmet. You’ve hit the mark. If words were a weapon, the Mandalorian would be out for the count. 

***

  
  


Seated on the cart, your attention is pointed outward, at the trees. That’s where he had come from. A Guild bounty hunter who had tracked the kid to this planet using a reactivated tracking fob. Thankfully, Cara had put a timely stop to his mission, but the danger is still very much present. More were likely on the way, and so, it was time for your small group to move on.

The kid is seated beside you. Those little fingers rest on your sleeve, a weight so light that it barely registers. You don’t have the heart to shrug him off. Not after the events of mere hours ago. Even if his reliance upon you does make you uncomfortable.

Both Cara and the Mandalorian are just finishing up their goodbyes. You were not overly bothered to indulge also. There wasn’t anyone that you’d grown close to here. And the others are definitely milking this a little bit. _Especially_ Omera. Like, _stars above_ , she’s acting like she’s in love with the dude after three weeks. You’ll never understand ordinary people. How easily they can form attachments. And how _weak_ it makes them. But then again, they’ll never understand what it's like to be you. 

Impatience wells hot in your chest. One of your hands extends to roughly slap the side of the cart. “Alright! Time to go. You can’t have _that_ much to say.”

The looks you receive in-response are poisonous. Especially from little Winta. That kid _hates_ you. Unperturbed, a loud chuckle spills from your mouth. She ignores you as she moves forward to bid goodbye to the kid, her expression growing sad. Omera stands behind her, hand braced comfortingly on her shoulder. Her scrutiny demands your attention.

“What?”

“Goodbye. And thank you.”

Your eyes drop to rest on your hands, now fidgeting in your lap. “Don’t mention it.”

“I have something for you.”

A flask is pressed into your hands. At first, you think it’s spotchka. Honestly, the stuff isn’t so bad. Somewhat eagerly, the lid is unscrewed in your hands. That’s when the smell leaks out. Pungent. Lingering. Strong enough to make you want to gag. _That fucking poultice._

Omera’s lips tremble as she tries to restrain a laugh.

“Oh, you think you’re funny?” you question, trying to sound irritated. 

It’s futile. The quaver of a laugh has already started to infiltrate the forced-annoyance of your tone. Everyone can hear it. 

“Just incase you ever need it again,” Omera’s replies, retreating with Winta in tow. 

The Mandalorian and Cara clamber aboard the cart. So do the two farmers who had brought you initially. Over the past few weeks, you had non-intentionally come to learn their names. Caben and Stoke. Which was which had yet to be specified, and you’re really not that bothered to know.

The vehicle whirs softly underneath, and begins to take off. It _inches_ across the ground, pace immeasurably slow. Honestly, it’s a little awkward. Creeping along while the locals stand silently watching, eyes intent upon your retreating forms. It feels like a much longer moment than necessary. Your mind searches for a way to end the painful monotony. 

As the thought occurs to you, a devilish smile breaks across your lips.

“Hey, Winta!” you call.

The little girl looks up, brow furrowed in confusion. Pulling back the cloak angled over your lap, you reveal your pointed middle finger. Omera’s face twists in disapproval as another harsh laugh bursts from your chest. At that moment, the forest finally eclipses your view of the village, wiping away the shocked faces of the gathered farmers.

The Mandalorian shakes his head disapprovingly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re stuck with me,” you answer with a broad grin.

That’s the agreement. You get to go with him and help protect the kid until you find somewhere that you can deem safe to separate. Specific details to be worked out later, of course.

The journey continues. Dark green leaves pass overhead. The forest whispers, a cold breeze rustling the branches. It’s quite peaceful, holding none of the threat before. Finally feeling somewhat at ease, you lean back. The sun beams down on your face. It’s warmth encloses your body. Once again, you have to admit that Sorgan is not _terrible._

It’s just not somewhere that you want to live long-term. Although travelling has played a critical part in keeping you alive over the years, it wasn’t just necessity that had you moving from planet to planet so often. _No._ There is a rare freedom in being able to explore the galaxy. Not a single landbound place has ever truly felt like home to you, not even the planet of your birth, but the vast possibilities of space have always felt infinitely comforting. If not a little lonely at times.

The sudden clearing of a throat draws your attention.

Cara Dune is eyeing you curiously, leaning back against the side of the cart. “So, _Nomad._ Do you have an actual name?”

“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?” Your response is guarded.

Having noticed the slight apprehension colouring your words, her head tilts curiously. “Are you going to tell us what it is?”

There is a slight pause before you answer. “________.”

That piercing gaze scans your face unrelentingly “Is that _actually_ your name?”

The lie of confirmation dies in your throat. Instinct is whispering in your ears, telling you that she will know if you lie. Give her the truth, but barely, and it may just satisfy her for the time being. 

“Not the one I was born with,” you reply, structuring the words carefully. “I don’t go by that name anymore. This is the one I’ve chosen for myself, and so it _is_ my name.”

While his attention is directed forward, you can tell that the Mandalorian is listening intently. It makes you uncomfortable, both of them being so keen to learn more about you. Certainly, it’s not because they view you as a friend. 

“Secretive as always,” she murmurs. “I’ve been trying to figure you out these past few weeks.”

“Had any luck?” you ask, shifting to gain a more comfortable position.

“Not quite… But I think that I have something.” Her smug tone immediately captures your attention. 

_What could she have figured out?_ If memory serves, you haven’t said much. Nothing past knowing a Mandalorian in your youth. Neither should even be aware that you worked for the Empire. And knowing Cara’s Republic alliance… She’d certainly shoot you as soon as she did. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ A slight panic has begun to build in your chest.

Tilting your head, it’s a struggle to keep your voice totally calm. “Enlighten me.”

Her white teeth flash as she smiles. “Your accent… It’s barely there, but I can hear it. You have the smallest trace of an Outer Rim lilt. Not Sorgan, but somewhere else.”

Your expression cools. Fidgeting hands still at your side.

Cara’s grin widens. “Not going to confirm if I’m right?”

Your words are prudently chosen. “I’ve visited a lot of places over the years. Stayed in some longer than others.”

Those dark eyes continue to bore into your face. When she speaks again, her tone is pointed with suspicion. “I’m sure that’s it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As explained in the story above, your personal name is the one that Nomad chose for herself while on the run. It's different from her working moniker, 'Nomad,' and usually only given to satisfy the curiosity of others as it has no tie to her background. She does have another name, her birth name, which has relevance to her past, but that will be explained later... As said in the chapter, it's not one that she uses anymore. So '______' or Nomad are the most relevant to her at the moment. Hopefully that's clear for everyone?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi pals. Hope everyone is keeping well. Bit of a muted announcement here... Today I tested positive for coronavirus. I'm mostly okay, some symptoms had cropped up earlier this week and I figured that I was better getting myself tested. Didn't actually think I had it, figured it was just a cold, but guess not. Anyhow, as a result, I could be a little sick for a bit. Due to this, it could be kind of hard to write. I'll still be trying my best, but if updates slow a little over the next few weeks, you know the reason why, and it isn't something that I can help.
> 
> I want to give a huge sincere thank you to those of you who have left such kind encouragements so far. While I'm aware that I haven't responded to the comments left on the last chapter, I've seen them, and you guys are so lovely and made me smile so much. I'll be getting back to them soon. It's just been an incredibly shitty week all around, and I just... really appreciate the support you've given. Christ, I'm tearing up a little. It's been a stressful evening. 
> 
> All my best wishes x

The growl comes from over your shoulder. “Did you ask before taking that?”

Expression immediately sinking in a defensive scowl, you point your gaze back. The Mandalorian is a mere few paces away, child in his arms, helmet inclined dangerously toward in your direction. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, as thick as the one lacing the air. Like honey, but nowhere near as sweet.

Your response comes through gritted teeth. “You aren’t using it.”

“I might have. And regardless, it’s _mine_.”

Of course, he has to kick up a fucking fight about everything. _Stars._ There is a reason that you’ve always tried to avoid travelling with men. No matter what species, they’re all the same. Absolutely insufferable and convinced that everything you do is wrong.

“Fine. Take it back then.” Your mouth twists in annoyance as your arm winds back. The bunched-up tarpaulin is tossed aggressively at his head. His helmet jerks to the side before it can smack him in the centre of the visor. 

Maybe it’s a dumb move, especially so soon after gaining your freedom, but at times he is absolutely _unbearable._ Especially when he gets into one of these moods. And they are growing more constant with each passing day, as the stress of having some of the most hardened beings in the galaxy on your shared tail catches up to him. It’s not quite as new of a circumstance for you. That might be why you’re handling it better.

The heavy-duty sheet opens, catching the air before slowly billowing to the ground. That impassive head turns to watch the movement. Your hands are tightening into fists at your side. _Why the fuck did you agree to this?_ Maybe you should have just stayed on Sorgan. Both common sense and past experience would have easily dictated that neither of you would fare well in the other’s company. It was stupid to even try.

“Just leave me at the next trading village,” you snap, stalking past him and down the platform of the Razor Crest. “I’ll take my chances.”

His eye-roll, albeit hidden, is palpable in the air. It’s as if you can _see_ it. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m perfectly serious,” you retort sharply. “I mean, _star’s forbid_ that I try to make a bed for myself on this fucking ship-”

“A bed?” the Mandalorian interrupts, tone coloured with slight confusion.

“Yes,” you tell him impatiently, pausing on the ramp to turn, hands rigidly planted on your hips. “I was going to string it up as a hammock. I’ve been sleeping on this hard-ass floor for _three days,_ I’m not fucking doing it any longer.” As he fails to answer immediately, your agitated tirade continues. “ _What?_ Did you just expect me to _continue_ to lie on the ground each night?”

Breathing heavily, your rant comes to an end. The Mandalorian doesn’t move. The sunlight filtering into the hold reflects off his helmet, casting dancing shimmers against the ceiling. It’s tilted to the side, almost thoughtfully, as he watches you. The kid is also alert, that curious gaze fixed on your face. He appears a little confused at the fighting. The sight of his small face deflates some of your anger. Children should not be privy to an adult’s conflict. It’s something that you know well.

Sighing, one of your hands rises to run down your face. The bracers are back on your arms, and their weight is comforting. Calming amidst the pair of prickling tempers. Turning on your heel, you go to continue down the ramp. To retreat away from the agitation that the Mandalorian’s presence always brings, and to the calm lush trees of this planet. “I’m going for a walk.”

Twigs crunch underfoot as you step into the woods. It's quiet here. Similar enough to Sorgan. After being cooped up on the ship for so many days, it was nice to be out in the vast forests once more, even if the closely huddled collection of trunks sometimes filled you with unease. It was a place that an illusive figure such as another bounty hunter could hide with ease.

You'd swept the area repeatedly, and the systems aboard the Razor Crest had shown nothing close so far. It was an ancient hunk of junk, but reliable enough. This planet should be safe. _For now._ As safe as anyone can be nowadays. One can never be too confident. Pride and fall go hand in hand. _Or something like that._

Occasionally, your arm shoots outward, the knife edges of your bracers sharply raking a harsh line in the side of a stationary tree. Marking the way back for later. The action is nearly subconscious. An automatic reaction to years in strange and confusing places. 

Your pace never falters. Not until you step out into a large open space. The field is lush and green, dappled with colourful bursts of blue and orange flowers atop the grass. Like something from a fairytale. 

A stream winds languidly through it, bringing the soft babbling of a brook to your ears. It is relaxing. You approach it, seating yourself along the small embankment with a sigh. Legs hovering over the edge, the tips of your heels trace thin lines across the top of the water. The light haze of dirt adorning the soles washes away, dissipating into the water and vanishing from view. One hand cups, falling to the water to scoop out a small handful, which you messily slurp up. 

Water runs down your chin, wetting the front of your black sweater that is not covered by the hardened leather corset strapped around your waist. It’s held in place by a descending line of straps and buckles at the front, adjustable for comfort, but sturdy enough to stop a knife. Not a blaster shot, however, as you know very well by now. That wound will certainly scar.

Your mask, perfectly fitted to obscure the lower part of your face, is back on the Razor Crest. Not that you’ll need it here. As beautiful as this place is, it’s also prone to volcanic eruptions from the mountains lining the distant treetops. Nice for a quick stop, but nowhere that people want to settle. You’re not worried about that at the moment. There’s a limit to how much bad luck one person can have in the span of a month. And seriously, you’ve had your fucking share.

Your cloak is fanned out on the ground behind you, drinking in the rays. It’s easier to see that circular insignia now. The lines, once deep green, have maintained the black dye better than the lighter patches. Their yellow is starting to creep back through. Soon, a decision will need to be made. Either to toss the cloak, to give up the last pieces of your heritage that you have left apart from the pendant around your neck, and what is in that flask back in your pack, or to find a place to get more black dye. With credits as low as they are, it could be a struggle. And the Mandalorian _certainly_ will not be happy with you spending money on items that he does not deem necessary.

As you sit, evening starts to creep in. The sky above grows streaked with pink and burnished orange, matching the wildflowers sprouting through the field. It’s nearly time to go. Still, you don’t move. It’s relaxing here. As soon as you get back to the ship, the Mandalorian will be riding on your damned last nerve again. Sanity dictates that this scenario should be put off for as long as possible. Besides, the Mandalorian will likely come and get you when it’s time to leave. _Probably._ Maybe you should have grabbed a communicator before storming off.

 _Sigh._ It’s probably best if you don’t antagonise him further. He is, after all, your transport. And you have a deal. You are just about to rise to your feet, when a sudden noise rings out in the distance. One that rises above the trees. One that makes the blood in your veins run cold. That all too familiar, damned sound. Blaster fire. 

_"Fuck."_

You’re back on your feet instantly. Hidden blades erupt from the top of the bracers, prepared for a fight. Of course, your fucking blaster is back on the ship also. Being so determined to get away from the Mandalorian, you’d neglected to put it back onto your belt before leaving. It isn’t a mistake that can be dwelled on. Not right now.

Boots thudding into the ground, you run. Back across the field, scattering clumps of those blue and orange flowers in your wake as you rush through. The trees rise before your eyes, growing taller as you disappear into their tight cluster. Shadows loom in here, the daylight even thinner than it was back in the field.

Your eyes flash through the darkening forest. It's hard to make out the markings slashed onto the trees in the fading light, but you manage to catch them. One _here_. Another _there._ Flashes of realisation that cause you to jerk, to change track suddenly as you try not to stumble or lose too much speed. It feels like you're careering wildly. Your chest heaves with exertion. Breathlessness. _Concern._ Not for him. Never for him. But for that damned _kid._

Everything is a blur. The shadows seem to leap amidst the tangled weald. You stagger through a deep puddle of muck that rises past the ankles of your boots and threatens to drag you down. Cursing, your leg is yanked free with so much force that it twangs. You might have just pulled a muscle. _Great._ Exactly what’s needed right about now.

Just as you begin to think that you must have gotten confused, that you are lost, you catch sight of it. The ship is there, looming between the trees. As you burst through the final bracket of thick trunks, it immediately registers that the hold door is tightly closed. You skid to a halt, ducking behind a large brush, eyes casting around the area. It appears to be deserted. 

You sneak forward, keeping close to the ground, arms held preparedly before you. The songsteel blades on your bracers can deflect blaster fire. One of few materials that can. If someone shoots, they are your best bet at avoiding another damned hit. But no one fires. Instead, this eerie silence sweeps over the clearing. You continue with trepidation, watching for any slight sign of movement. It could be a trap. Still, nothing comes. That almost makes you even more uneasy.

Having reached the legs of the ship, you quickly duck behind one. Feeling a little safer below the underbelly of the vessel, you cautiously rise. Nothing fires for your head. There is no one here. Not that you can see. No noises come from within the Razor Crest either. 

“Hey!” you hiss, loudly. “Mandalorian!”

No answer. 

You raise your arm, slamming it into the ship’s bottom floor. A clang echoes at the motion. That’s it. There’s nothing else. You won’t be able to get in. The Mandalorian has not added permissions for you to access the security pad. Probably doesn’t entirely trust you not to just steal it on him. And you can’t really blame him for that, but it’s quite unfortunate right now as your blaster and the other cache of weapons stacked in your bag are literally just one all-too-solid metal wall away. You could probably hot-wire it to get the engine on and the doors open, but that would take time. 

The sounds of gunfire ring out once more. _Shit._ It’s far away. And growing further. 

Figuring by now that this area is clear, you detach from the cover of the ship’s leg. Eyes scanning the dirt, they catch on something. Scuffed tracks. Burns on the bark of trees ringing the glade. The footprints - many sets, not just one - lead into the distance. The opposite way to the direction that you had just emerged from. And there, apparently dropped on the ground, is a Bounty Hunter’s Guild card.

They’ve found you. Or rather, they’ve found the Mandalorian and the child. _Fuck._ There’s no time to lose. You’re going into this with blades alone. Hopefully it will be enough.

Hurriedly pulling up the hood of your cloak, you silently give chase. They can’t have gone far. It took you ten minutes at most to get back to the Razor Crest after the initial spurt of gunfire. All the same, that short span of time could be all that’s needed to escape. It _always_ comes down to mere seconds. 

The combination of the far-away gunfire and the trail pounded into the dirt provide a solid path to follow. Almost as clear as your markings in the trees upon heading to the lake. The only nuisance is the fading light. It makes it harder to see anything. Your wariness grows as your attention breaks from the trail to scan the trees, wondering if there could be something out there. Watching you. _No._ You’d feel it. Assassin senses, or whatever intuition you inherited, have always served as early warning signs. Though like all systems, they can still fail. Nevarro was proof enough of that, though your own stubborn desire for that contract also played a part in ignoring your apprehension.

As you grow closer, the sounds of fighting stop abruptly. It’s unsettling, mostly as it signifies one of two possible outcomes. That the Mandalorian has emerged victorious, or that the Guild have somehow incapatictated him. Not that you particularly would mourn his death, but that could leave you as the sole protector for the kid, which is _certainly_ not what you signed up for. It would be a pretty large inconvenience, seeing as you wouldn’t have a fucking clue what to do with him.

Your intuition screams with awareness as a shape barrels from the darkness of a nearby brush. It’s pure instinct. One arm lashes forward. The tip of the short sword stemming from the top of the gauntlet collides with something. Hard. _Far too fucking_ hard. The shock jars your arm, radiating sharp pain. A ear-splitting ring chimes through the clearing, as if someone struck a bell with all their might right beside your ear. _Metal on metal._ A distorted shout of pain rises with your own as a flock of birds take off from the nearby treetop. That’s when you realise that the voice crying out is _familiar._

The Mandalorian staggers away, both hands raised to clamp down on the side of his helmet. His legs are unsteady, trembling, and he half-collapses into a nearby tree trunk. One arm braces weakly against the bark before he can fall, holding him in place. You, meanwhile, are clutching your injured arm with the other, rocking in place as you try to blink back the tears of agony welling in your eyes. A low moan escapes your lips. “You nearly broke my fucking arm.”

“ _I_ nearly broke it?” the Mandalorian growls, rounding on you. _“You_ hit _me._ Dank _farrick.”_ He shakes his head violently, as if trying to dislodge something. “It almost burst my kriffing eardrums. What did you do that for?”

“Maybe because you lunged at me from the shadows? Was some sort of warning just completely out of the question? I mean, _stars,_ Mandalorian-”

There is a scuffle in the forest. A yell, accompanied by rapid footfalls. It snatches the attention away from the argument currently brewing with the ferocity of a stormcloud. A hand wraps around your wrist, dragging you back into the brush. The Mandalorian all but pushes you into a crouch on the ground, dropping down beside you. His shoulder brushes yours, the beskar plates of his arms cold in the rapidly chilling night. Moonlight reflects off his helmet, but the glass visor remains just as dark as ever. 

A question wells on your lips, but quickly dies into a still hush. Another figure rushes into the space that you had both stood only seconds before. In his hands is one of the biggest guns you’ve ever seen. _Fuck._ There’s no way that either of you would survive a blast from that thing. A beam of light blinks to life at the end of the muzzle. Moving slowly, it begins to scan the surrounding area. 

_Shit._ It’s going to pierce through the leaves of the hedge and reflect off his beskar. There’s no time for any whispered explanation. Just action, to save both of your lives. With a silent swing of your arm, you throw your cloak around the Mandalorian, shifting closer and pulling it tightly, so that the fabric obscures both of you in a tight cocoon. Your arms encircle his back, holding him close to your chest as the beam trails over the brush that barely manages to obstruct you from the bounty hunter’s view. The top of your head is peering out the break in fabric, eyes intently focused on the searching hunter. The forehead of his helmet is all but jammed into the rise of your chest, something that you are trying not to think about. 

The light passes over you, moving on. A shaky breath of relief leaves your lips, fogging the dark glass in his helmet. Your arms lower slowly as the bounty hunter, apparently satisfied, moves away. As you turn back, it’s a surprise to find the Mandalorian’s helmet inches from your face. He is watching you silently, and that thick hunk of metal offers no hint at what expression lies underneath. Usually, his body language gives some indicator. Now, it doesn’t. 

He is just still and watchful. It reminds you of the battle of Sorgan, of when you sent a knife into the back of the raider trying to shoot him. The silence is thick, wrapping you both in the proximity of the moment, as you wonder what he’ll say next.

“Quick thinking,” he finally murmurs. Almost appreciative, but not quite. 

It’s enough to make you roll your eyes. But you don’t, as another realisation overtakes your thoughts. “Where’s the kid?”

He stiffens. A moment of silence. It’s all the answer that you need. Standing abruptly, you offer him a hand. He takes it after a short hesitation, allowing you to pull him back to his feet.

“How many?” you ask, pushing emotion away and allowing the calculatining mind of a hunter to take over, “and do they all have guns like that?”

“There’s a good few of them,” he responds, pulling his own blaster from his belt. “Possibly eight. Two with those guns, the others all had normal blasters. They… they snatched the kid when I was on the ship. He’d been at the bottom of the ramp. I think he was waiting for you to come back.”

 _Stars._ Thanks Mandalorian. Way to pack on the guilt. 

“Well,” you answer briskly, refusing to allow him to see the effect that those words had, “he won’t have to wait much longer. Let’s go.”

Without another word, you both set off. Keeping low, staying quiet. Communicating through looks and gestures, with the occasional low hiss. It’s strange to be hunting with someone else. You’d always done it alone. It’s not necessarily better. Not necessarily _worse_ either. He’s a little louder than you would like, thanks to the beskar, but the night vision inside his helmet comes in handy. Night has fuly set in, and the struggle for your eyes to find the tracks has only been increasing.

You catch up to them just as they are approaching their ship. It’s huge and hulking against the dark sky. Light spills from it, illuminating the surrounding areas. Leaving no place to hide in the shadows. And there, held in the arms of the huge boltrunian striding towards the group of sentinels gathered at the ship’s cavernous mouth, is the child. He’s struggling, crying, wrinkles deepened as his green face is twisted in upset and fear. 

You force yourself to look away, to survey the rest of the troop. It’s an eclectic mix of criminals. They must have agreed to work together and then split that rather large bounty. Not that it will happen. Someone will betray someone in the end. That’s what always happens with these kinds. Yourself included, of course.

“There’s too many,” you mutter, “and I’m not about to get shot again. We need to be smart about this. Stealthy.”

“Stealth has never been my style,” the Mandalorian responds in his usual smooth rasp, “but what would you suggest?”

That’s surprising. He’s showing the smallest amount of faith in you. It’s deserved, in your opinion, but unexpected all the same. Chewing your lip thoughtfully, your eyes rove over the group, the weapons. You know these types of people. Hardened warriors. Beings who will do anything to survive. Nothing means more to them than credits, except for their own life. And if cornered, they will use the child to barter their way out. Or to barter for the Mandalorian’s surrender. And you can’t have that. So you need to go in unseen, and cause panic. Something to make them act without thinking, to force them to simply respond instead of plot.

It comes together in your mind. A plan. Not the most skilled of ideas, but it’s the best that this moment can generate. And it may just work. If he agrees, that is.

A wry chuckle escapes your lips. “Oh, you’re _so_ not going to like this.”

***

He doesn’t. As expected. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he agrees. And so, after all the details have been hissed against the side of his helmet, you break away. Slinking into the darkness as he stays put. Around the perimeter, keeping to the shadows. All the way, until you reach the opposite side of the ship. 

Most of the bounty hunters have gathered to pack up the weapons they unloaded around the other side, back at the front of the ship. There are only a few standing guard, and most of them are clustered back the way that you would have come from. There is one individual near you, and when your blade erupts from the front of his throat, no one notices. They don’t even react to the slightest sway of the branches as you pull his dead body behind the tree. Slipping out of the cover of the forest, a few short, quick steps take you to the leg of their ship. It’s very reminiscent to earlier, when you were sneaking around the Razor Crest. Peering out from the side, your eyes focus on where the Mandalorian is leaning out from his hiding spot. Barely visible, but apparent to you. His head inclines in a sharp nod. Your eyes lift, searching for something above. _There is it._ A panel on the underside of the ship. 

Glancing at the Mandalorian, you sharply return his nod. One of his arm lifts, and a blaster shot fires upwards, into the night. Shouts come from the guards and all the others. They immediately halt what they’re doing, turning towards the source of the noise. It’s all the time that you need. 

_Divert their attention to him. His armour can take the regular blaster fire. Yours can’t. So it has to be you that gets to the ship, and it has to be him to distract them long enough for you to turn off those floodlights. There’s too many, and if they see you coming, neither of you will stand a chance._

The point of your blade makes quick work of the screws. The panel drops into your waiting arms. And then a shout rings out from right beside you. _Far too close._ A bounty hunter has noticed you. He gives charge, blaster raising. The chunk of metal in your hands collides sharply with his face before he can fire, knocking him back onto the earth with a loud, echoing clang. The others turn, hard eyes settling upon you. There’s no more time to be careful. The serrated edge of your bracer rake through the nest of wires above. A shudder of electricity runs down your arm, and a cry of pain bursts from your mouth. All the lights go out, and darkness floods the glade.

Gunfire erupts. Wild. Jagged. Red lights streaking through the air. You shove the resounding pain from the electrical shock to the side, and throw yourself forward. A sarkhai is first to fall to your blades. Your foot collides with his chest, hard, knocking him to the ground as the point pierces his chest. Then, there is a blaster in your hands once again. Turning, you fire at the shapes in the dark. Some fall. Others rush behind crates, seeking cover before returning fire.

An explosion shakes the earth. One of those damned guns. The big ones. The blast lights up the night. Behind the flames its leaves writhing, the Mandalorian is illuminated. He is returning fire, dodging back between trunks of trees to try and get an angle on that particular mercenary. There are four converging on his position. Your heels turn, about to go to his aid. 

That’s when the enormous form of the boltrunian erupts from behind the crate. He is running, child in his arms. Straight for the trees, and disappearing through them. _Fuck._ The Mandalorian will have to take care of himself.

You give chase. It’s a thoughtless action. A ridiculous one. Bullets thud into the earth that you leave in your wake, hounding your heels. Your back is ridiculously vulnerable. And still, you don’t stop. Not even as another assailant steps out to block your path, levelling a one of those huge guns straight for your chest. Your own shot knocks him back, blade swinging into the neck of another who tries to seize hold you as you pass. Both forms thud to the ground. Your steps barely falter.

Branches whip across your face as you vault over a log and back into the woods. It’s hard to see, with the only illumination being the flashlight at the end of the blaster. The child’s screams and the pounding pace of the boltrunian make them easy to follow. The Mandalorian may have more trouble as the distance grows. If he survives, that is. _Hopefully._ You took down five or six, but there were more there. 

“Stop!” you roar, catching sight of the boltrunian between the trees. Your blaster raises at his back. “I said _stop!”_

There’s a flare of red from somewhere close, flashing onto the dark trunks in your path. Not a blaster fire, but you don’t have time to think of the source. The boltrunian catapults forward, pitching heavily onto the earth. As if shoved by an invisible hand. Or more likely, tripped by a perfectly-timed root. Whatever it is, you can only thank the stars that it happened. The bastard was _fast._

Concern knifes through your chest as a horrible thought occurs. _Did he just crush the fucking kid?_ No. There’s still loud wailing. As you get closer, blaster trained on his form, you note that the bounty hunter fell onto his side. The child is still in his arms, kicking and screaming against that huge chest. The infant stiffens upon seeing you, calming slightly.

“Give me the kid.” Your voice is calm. Even as another distant explosion shudders through the forest. “I’ll let you go. You don’t need to die too. All you need to do is put him _down.”_

The boltrunian’s wild eyes slid between you and the child, calculating, weighing up the risks. Your hard gaze does not falter. It’s clear that you mean business. That you’ll kill him if he tries anything.

With a low rumble, he speaks. “Do you swear?”

“Yes,” you reply evenly, holding his pointed gaze. “On my father’s life.”

With movements both slow and purposeful, the enormous bounty hunter places the kid on the ground. He immediately shuffles towards you, little hands wrapping in the leg of your trousers. Keeping your gaze on the boltrunian, you stoop, one arm wrapping around the child and lifting him to your chest. The other keeps the blaster fixed on the bounty hunter. 

The child’s little body is warm against the cold night. His forehead presses against your cheek. Small shudders run through his body. His fear is tangible, as if whispering to you. The cold anger curling within your torso is bitter upon your tongue. Your arm shifts, turning the kid away. So that he doesn’t have to see what comes next. 

“By the way,” you say, a chilling smile curling your lips, “my father is dead. You _fucking_ moron.”

Your finger tightens around the trigger. Pulling it. Breaking your vow. And then, in the most classic display of your apparently endless bad luck, the overheated weapon decides to let out a loud whine and abruptly die in your hands.

“Shit,” is all that you can think to say.

With an explosive cry of rage, the boltrunian gives charge. Still clutching the child, you duck under the massive arm swinging straight for your head. The blow splinters the tree trunk behind you. Twisting, your arm lashes at his thigh. The sharp edges of the serrated points lining your wrist slice through the skin they meet. Blood splatters down your arm. The boltrunian hunter lets out a bellow of rage.

He tries to grab you again, stumbling forward on his injured leg, but the bracers’ hidden swords erupt out once more, spearing through his reaching palm. One leg bracing against his knee, you tear it free, before swiping again. This time, his whole hand drops away to the forest floor. His scream is far weaker now, almost a croak of agony and disbelief. Using his obvious distraction to your advantage, you step forward, blade sliding neatly into the soft patch underneath his chin. All the way up through his mouth. Straight into his brain. 

It’s a killing strike. Effective. Instant. You should know, it was pretty much your signature move back in the old days. Close and personal, and nicely sadistic. The boltrunian crumples. There’s barely time to yank your arm back out before he falls upon it, but you manage. The blade comes free dripping with dark blood. You make a face, disgusted at the mess, but not at what you’ve done. 

A light touch brushes against your face. Head tilting down, you eye the kid curiously, searching for any signs of injury. His fingers trace the curve of your chin, the line of your nose. It seems to calm him a little. A wry smile grows on your lips. Those huge dark eyes rest on yours for a long moment, before sinking closed as he leans in. His small arms wrap around your neck in a gentle embrace. _A hug._ The rest of the world falls away. Your throat jumps as you swallow thickly, not sure what to do. And then, your arm shifts to clutch him a little tighter against you. Not returning the embrace, but not quite _not_ returning it either.

There is another sound in the trees. You turn, unburdened arm lifting defensively to cover the child. It’s only the Mandalorian. His armour is splattered in blood and dust, but he seems unharmed. Pausing in his tracks, that inscrutable gaze washes over you. Feeling uncomfortable under the weight of it, under how is examining the child leaning against you, you step closer to pass him the kid. 

His head tilts towards the fallen boltrunian. “Nice job.” 

“Thanks.” You’re feeling inexplicably embarrassed. No one needs to think that you’re going soft, but the kid is just a pretty good job of trying to make that idea a reality. “You too.”

He pauses, as if uncertain, before hesitantly continuing. “We should get out of here.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Your laugh is hoarse. “Lead the way.”

Silence picks up as you head back through the woods. Pausing briefly as the powered down ship, a few minutes are taken to search the interior and the fallen bodies for anything useful. You load a pack up with some weapons, ammunition, and food to bring back to the Razor Crest. The Mandalorian collects all the blinking tracking fobs aboard, and crushes them under his heel. No more than a few minutes are spent. Both of you are a little on edge after being found so quickly after leaving Sorgan.

As you walk back to the ship, following the beam directed by the Mandalorian’s helmet, he suddenly speaks. “You can take the tarpaulin.”

"What?"

"The tarpaulin. For your hammock."

That’s all he says. No apology for the animosity over the last few days. No explanation for his change of mind now. But the concession is enough. A wry grin starts to form on your lips. “I was going to wait until you were sleeping and take it anyhow.”

That silver helmet shakes in exasperation, as a sigh of muted annoyance whispers through the modulator. “Of course you were.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right well here's to potentially spending my next few weeks locked in my room lazily scrolling through Tiktok. Thankfully, the algorithm knows by now that I like Din Djarin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your well-wishes. They were much apprciated this week. Being sick has not been ideal. I'm lucky not to have a fever or loss of taste/smell, but I do have sniffles, chest tightness/pain, and breathlessness. While I have a milder dose, I can definitely see how COVID would easily be a problem for people who have it harsher. Luckily I was able to get writing done this week, so here's the next chapter, but if I'm feeling shitty over the next week there could be a delay with the next. 
> 
> This chapter takes place at the very start of S1Ep5.
> 
> As I said a while ago, every few chapters will be from Din's perspective. Just so we get a glimpse into where his head is at. So without further ado...

Soft snores radiate through the cargo hold. Din pauses, head inclining toward the source of the noise. It’s coming from where you lay, suspended in your hammock. Your arms are crossed languidly over your chest, chin resting against the pit of your collarbones, brushing against the red pendant always adorning your neck. The hood of your cloak is pulled forward to hide your eyes from the ship’s dim light, while the mantle itself has been tugged out from behind you and now lies fanned across the front of your lower body, as if it’s a blanket. 

A small smile of amusement tugs at his lips. Certainly, in this moment, you don’t appear all that threatening. It’s hard to equate this peaceful girl with the one he saw two days before. The one who took out a boltrunian using only one arm, while clutching a baby in the other. That had been _quite_ a sight. More than a little impressive. He’d given you one small compliment, but his secret admiration went beyond that. Admiration for the act _alone,_ mind you. Not admiration for you as a whole. Although…

As he takes the opportunity to examine you in a moment where your sharp eyes will not catch him doing so, Din has to admit that you’re not _bad_ looking. Maybe he’d even consider you to be attractive, if you were not so consistently insufferable. And he'd received a close and personal look at your breasts when you all but jammed him into your chest. Pushed up by that leather corset strapped around your waist, they had created a rather attractive view. One that he tried not to dwell on afterwards. But it had just been a _while_.

You shift, brow furrowing, and then your eyes blink open. He goes to divert his gaze. It’s too late. Those piercing eyes lock onto his face. Sometimes, it’s as if you can see him through the visor. It makes him more than a little uneasy, how your gaze always manages to latch straight onto his. Your voice is roughened, groggy with tiredness. “Do you need me to fly for a bit?”

“It’s fine.” That’s all he says. “I’ve got it.”

No argument comes from your lips. Instead, there is only a slight nod as your eyes slide closed once more, sleep lulling you back into its warm embrace. The gentle snoring resumes. Din shakes his head wryly. In his arms, the child lets out a yearning cry and stretches his little arms towards you. There is no reaction from your slumbering form, apart from a single slightly hitched snort. The Mandalorian is not wary about the child being around you now. Not after he caught you clutching the infant to your chest after retrieving him from the boltrunian hunter, head angled low and eyes filled with an expression of surprising vulnerability as the kid clung to you. 

There’s much about you that he doesn’t understand, but that moment was something that he saw with perfect clarity. He’d experienced it too. A person who did not receive much love or kindness from this world, flinching at the tender embrace of a lost child that offered both. The nervousness had been clear in your eyes, written as plainly as your pain and longing.

Turning, Din climbs the ladder back to the cockpit. He pauses to place the kid back into his floating circular crib, before settling back into the pilot’s chair. The seat is warm from his earlier use. He had only just left to use the bathroom, and to wake the infant up from where he napped in Din’s bunk. With one hand on the controls, he leans across with the other. Gloved fingers wrap around the bottle of water in one of the passenger seat’s cupholder. That had been where he’d seated himself earlier in the day, for a brief respite as you took command of the ship’s controls. He’d been watchful, all too aware of how disobedient you could potentially be. Despite the occasional barb that you simply could not seem to help throwing, his commands had mostly been obeyed. And Din has to admit, those piloting skills were not half bad either.

The child leans around as the Mandalorian lifts his helmet the barest amount, just enough to get his lips around the bottle’s spout. It doesn’t count as taking off his helmet but the action always makes him uneasy. When he finishes, he screws the lid back on tightly before setting it down in the pilot’s seat cupholder. Feeling a little more refreshed, he switches the Razor Crest off autopilot, and assumes manual command once again.

Space remains dark and quiet. Utter blackness, apart from twinkling silver stars. It’s soothing, in moments like this. One can be alone with their thoughts, lost in the vastness of this galaxy, and reminded of how truly small they are compared to the world. In a strange way, it’s calming. But that peace does not last long.

Without warning, the sensors light up. 

_Kriff._

Another ship bursts into existence. Smaller. Fast. More agile. Beams of red begin to streak from its wings, spearing straight for the Razor Crest. Din struggles to dodge, yanking the ship sharply this way and that. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it is. _Another bounty hunter._ You both knew that they were just going to keep coming.

Straining, Din pitches the Razor Crest sideways. There’s a shriek from down below, back in the hold. A quick glance to the security camera shows your hammock spinning widely, looping around your struggling form like a cocoon. He can just about see the wild indentations of your wild limbs against the tautening sheet. It would have been funny at any other moment, but right now Din can’t find any amusement in the situation. His attention snaps back to the world in-front of him as he jerks the controls to the right, dodging a halo of scarlet fire.

There’s a loud thud, followed by your enraged shout. “Fuck!”

His eyes jerk back to the camera. You’re on the floor, pushing yourself up to your elbows. A shot from the energy ship screams towards the Razor Crest’s left wing. Clenching his teeth, Din veers to avoid it. The motion lifts you off the ground, hurling you back into the wall and then straight up into the ceiling, colliding with the camera. A resounding bang echoes through the ship, louder than the screeching sensations and whine of rapid-fire coming from behind. The sound of you thudding back into the ground is equally harsh.

There’s no chance to check if you are okay. The radio crackles. A man’s voice comes over the line. Undoubtedly the guild member in pursuit. “Hand over the child, Mando. I might let you live.”

Everything shudders. He’s almost afraid that the ship will come apart. She’s reliable, but she’s old. Not built to stand this level of fire for such an extended period. As if his thoughts conjured reality, a blast catches the left wing. Fire bursts from it, sputtering into the air. The emergency lights come on. Din curses under his breath.

“What’s going on?” A voice yells from behind. 

In the reflection of the window his eyes snag on you, hauling yourself up the ladder. The ship twists again as you reach the top rung, sending you careering into the wall. You manage to catch yourself, shoving away from it before throwing yourself into the seat. With surprisingly steady hands, your fingers snap the buckle into place. There’s blood trailing from your temple. You don’t seem to notice.

“We’re under attack,” he growls. “Hold on.”

The Razor Crest leans into a spin, twisting so rapidly that even he feels a little unwell. One of your hands shoots up to brace against the ceiling. The other extends to grab hold of the floating ball that the child is seated inside. He is just about aware of your dragging it closer, wrapping an arm around the exterior while hugging it between both knees. Your teeth are gritted, expression strained. The ship finally pulls out of the spin, but the bounty hunter’s craft is still right on the Razor’s Crest's tail.

“Come on,” Din mutters, more to himself than anything.

That smug voice fills the comms line once more. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

Those few words snap any remaining calm that the Mandalorian feels. In what seems a little like a suicidal move, his hand slams on the brakes. The ship jolts to an abrupt halt. Everyone inside is jerked forward by the momentum. A yelp of surprise escapes your lips. The other craft, caught off by the motion, shoots overhead. It’s the only opportunity that Din needs. 

“That’s my line,” he deadpans. The Razor Crest locks onto the smaller craft almost immediately. The ship jerks as it fires a single bolt, and the other craft vanishes into an inferno of flame.

There is a moment of silence as everyone catches their breath again. Din glances back, first at the child. The infant is wide-eyed and silent, but otherwise okay. His gaze then lifts to you, once again registering the line of red still dripping down the side of your face. “You’re bleeding.”

“Am I? Oh, _fuck.”_ Your hand raises, lightly brushing against the spot of your wound. It’s mostly hidden by hair. A small wince draws your face at the abrupt contact. You don’t sound concerned, just a little annoyed. “Must have happened when I was abruptly _hurled into the ceiling.”_

He ignores the jab. There wasn’t anything else that he could have done. Both of you know what. But all the same… A little bit of compassion prompts his next words. In a tone that’s more than a little gruff, he speaks, gesturing back down to the hold. “There’s some small plasters under the bathroom sink. Go take care of it.”

A pause lingers in the air. He tries not to look at your startled expression. It’s better to focus on helping the Razor Crest limp through space. However, it’s hard to ignore the surprised arch of your brow. Shaking his head, Din repeats the words. “Go.” His tone clearly states that this kind offer has a rapidly forthcoming expiration date.

Gently pushing the child’s floating crib away, you get to your feet. At the same time, all the lights in the ship go dead. Alarms blare loudly. The child suddenly lets out a loud giggle, as if it is all a game. You pause, uncertain, glancing back at the Mandalorian. He sees your gaze flicker outwards, towards the Razor Crest’s damaged wing.

“We’re losing fuel,” he supplies, before waving you off. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it. Go take care of your head.”

The engine sputters loudly overhead, marking the uncertainty of your following words. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Din answers sharply, already rising to his feet. “Just go. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Your hands lift placatingly, but then you are gone down the ladder. A beam of white light radiates from the hold as you turn on a flashlight. The Mandalorian can hear you rustling around downstairs. Up above, Din proceeds to activate the ship’s emergency generation. The Razor Crest comes mutedly to life. It’s not much in the way of power, but it will get you all to the nearest planet. Tatooine.

“Where did you say the plasters were?” Your voice calls from below.

Exasperated face hidden by his helmet, Din rolls his eyes. “Under the bathroom sink.”

There is another rustle, and then a pause before you shout up again. “No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are,” he retorts, irritation creeping into his tone. “I checked yesterday.”

Your sigh permeates the metal walls. “I’m telling you, Mandalorian, there’s no plasters under the bathroom sink.”

His head shakes in exasperation. “Well then, check the overhead cupboards.”

Another beat of silence, before an exuberant, “got them!”

 _Finally._ Din doesn’t respond, just instead focuses on steering the ship. The planet’s control tower comes in to give him permission to land in bay three-five. From below, the sounds of a package tearing rings out. Some low humming fills the air. It’s you, murmuring some tune that he is not familiar with. The Mandalorian has no idea how you’re so _unbothered_ by everything at times. It’s as if the idea that some of the galaxy’s most hardened criminals following in your shared tracks fails to stress you in any considerable way

Within a few minutes, he can hear you making your way back up the ladder. You appear in the reflection of the Razor Crest’s window, and he does not need to turn around to take you in. The blood has been cleaned off your face, and a puffy white plaster runs vertically down your temple. It may have been the prime spot for a concussion, but your eyes seem alert and your expression appears clear.

The kid coos, reaching for your hand as you slid past his floating crib and back into the right-hand passenger seat. Almost absentmindedly, you allow the infant to take hold of your fingers. A small smile crosses your face as you look at the kid. “Hey, bug. That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

Din snorts. “I don’t think that’s quite the word I’d use.”

You change subject, apparently not bothered getting into an argument. "Where are we headed?" 

"To Tatooine."

There is another moment of silence. "Oh."

Din inclines his head curiously, twisting around to scan your face. "Not fond of the place?"

He watches as your bottom lip rolls indecisively between your teeth. It's an expression that he is familiar with by now. The usual internal debate on whether to divulge a sliver of your secrets. Caution wins out as your answer contains that permanent style of classic deflection. "Nothing good ever happens on Tatooine. It's basically the unspoken law of the universe."

The words might have been thoroughly constructed to say something without actually meaning anything, but Din has to admit that you're right. A small chuckle leaves his lips. It can be hard not to find you a little amusing at times. That quick wit can bite with insult, but it can just as easily stoke his entertainment when properly applied.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, a little formally.

Your head shakes. "It's just a scratch." A wry grin twists the corners of your mouth upwards. "I've had worse."

And Din knows it. You both do.

"Good," the Mandalorian says, before turning his attention back to landing the Razor Crest safely in the bay. After a second’s hesitation, he turns back for you. “Would you mind putting him to bed?”

The kid’s eyes are starting to sink closed. Furthermore, the Mandalorian does not want to bring him out into this place. Not until he knows that it’s safe. Surprise flits across your features at his request. At the knowledge that he is allowing you to take the child out of his eyesight. That he is trusting you. He doesn’t miss the pleased expression momentarily warming your eyes as you look at him. 

“Sure.” Your head bobs eagerly, before your attention turns to the rapidly tiring child. “Come on, bug.” 

As you scoop him up and disappear down below, Din debates telling you to stay behind. It might be good to have someone keep a watchful eye on the kid. At the same time… It might be better for you both to investigate the town together. People would be less likely to mess with two imposing warriors, rather than just a solitary one. Besides, you seem familiar with Tatooine. At least a little, from what he can glean.

The Mandalorian comes downstairs just as you are closing up the kid’s bunk. He gets a flash of the child, all swaddled in a blanket, before the door shuts the infant from his view. You exchange a small nod with him, before dipping to the side. He watches as you pick up your mask - the black on that covers the lower half of your face - and carefully strap it around the back of your head. Your hood is then pulled low over your forehead. Not for the first time, he wonders who you are hiding from. There has to be someone, otherwise you would not go to such a length to conceal your identity.

He doesn’t ask. The cargo hold ramp hisses open, lowering to the ground. The Mandalorian steps forward, with you falling into place at his shoulder, and step out into the scorching heat of Tatooine.

Immediately, three rust covered droids converge on his ship. The Mandalorian blasts them away before they can get too close. Damn droids. He kriffing _hates_ the things. Underneath the hanging fabric covering your forehead, he still sees one of your brows quirk upwards questioningly.

“Hey!” A loud, indignant shout comes from the administration deck. A woman with a halo of reddish-brown hair comes storming out. She is wearing a dirty burgundy mechanics uniform, smeared in dried patches of oil. The clipboard in her hands points forcefully at him. “If you damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it.”

“Just keep them away from my ship,” Din retorts calmly.

Sarcasm laces the woman’s voice. “Yeah? You think that’s a good idea, do you?” Din hears the unmistakable nose of you trying to smother a chuckle with a snort. The female mechanic continues to prowl around the Razor Crest. “Let’s look at your ship, then… Oof, look at that.” Her closed fist bangs on the wall, before she points towards the legs. “Ugh. You’ve got a lot of carbon scoring building up top… Yeah... If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were in a shoot-out.” Neither Din or yourself comment. Instead, you remain quiet and allow the woman to continue her murmurings. She sounds knowledgeable, at least. Lifting one finger, she waves disbelievingly at the engine. “You’ve got a fuel leak! How did you even land? That’s going to set you back.”

Din pulls a small bag free from his belt, shifting it between his fingers. “I’ve got five-hundred Imperial credits.”

The woman stares at him disapprovingly. “That’s all you got?” With an unenthusiastic look, she turns to the droids. “Well, what do you guys think?” The little bots shake their heads. The woman glances up at the ship again, before back to Din. “Well, that should at least cover the hangar.”

“We can get more,” you interject, before the Mandalorian says anything. 

The woman’s cynical gaze twists to you. Her tone is dry. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” But still, she does not say no. 

Din inclines his head, his steady gaze fixed on the mechanic through his darkened visor. “Just remember-”

“No droids,” the woman interjects. “I heard ya. You don’t have to say it twice.”

The Mandalorian turns without another word. He is aware of your quiet footsteps following at his heels. They are barely audible. Not for the first time, he wonders how you are able to move so silently. It’s as if being trailed by a ghost, sometimes. 

He had caught glimpses of you on Nevarro for quite a few years now. Always in passing, until that occasion that you had run into him outside of the cantina. It had been known to him that you were a fellow bounty hunter, but no murmurings of any further past reached his ears. Usually, somebody knew someone else’s history, and those seedy reputations crept through the underworld of civilisation like rotting roots. But there had never been anything on you. _A nomad who came from nowhere._

He doesn’t ask. You are not close enough for that kind of exchange, and he has seen how closely you guard your secrets. While he wears his mask openly, yours is more hidden, but it is there all the same.

Din pushes open the door of the bay, holding just long enough for your hand to settle against, and then ducks out into the sandy streets of Tatooine. The hem of his cape scrapes along the dusty ground. The place is a lot like Nevarro. Dirty stone huts line either side of the road, and the air stinks of rotting garbage. The place could be beautiful, if it was better maintained, as is the case with many of these impoverished planets in the galaxy. 

Few places in the Outer Rim have the same money and infrastructure available as the Core Worlds. Only three may come close economically. Muunilinst, Mygeeto, and Serenno. The countless others had long since lapsed into what nearly seemed like endless poverty, and now run rampant with desperation and crime. As unfortunate as it is for the inhabitants, crime is pretty much what bounty hunter’s made a living on, and so Tatooine should be a good place to stock up on some credits. All that’s left is to find a reasonably priced contract.

As Din strides down the dusty road, you draw level with him once again. Your head tilts back, allowing the sun to wash over the exposed areas of your face. “Stars. I’m dying for some actual breakfast.”

"There's food on the ship." The heat beams down on him, powerful and unrelenting. Already, Din can feel himself starting to sweat. _Kriff._ The discomfort only serves to sour his temper. "Was it not good enough for you?"

Your hands rise placatingly. He has to appreciate the effort you make to try and clamp down on your expression of mounting irritation. A small amount still slides through the cracks, however, visible on your marginally furrowed brow. "Easy, Mando. I'm not trying to cause offense. I just feel like something a bit different than ration bars."

 _'Mando.'_ He doesn't remark on it, but takes note of it all the same. You used to call him it mockingly, making it sound like an insult. There's no sign of that intention in the words now. _'Mando.'_ Spoke casually, as if without conscious decision. Your tone wasn't exactly fond, but it held less far frost than it would have last week.

"Sorry," he says, surprising himself. 

You've been making an effort to hold back your barbs these past few days. He has too. The hostility isn't comfortable to live in forever. Still, it's hard to control his temper in the scorching heat of this place.

"It's alright," you answer, and the walk through the streets continues in silence.

Overly hot weather has always made Din a little cranky. Cold is something that he can handle. All he needs to do is bundle up a little more. But _heat,_ on the other hand, is not something that he can do much about. It's not like he could just take off his helmet for the tiniest pinch of relief. 

“It’s as hot as fuck out here,” you complain, lifting a hand to fan yourself. While not roasting underneath the rapidly heating plates of beskar, the form-fitting black uniform combined with the heavy hood and thick mask would certainly make one a little uncomfortable also.

Not bothered to answer, Din just nods noncommittally. His eyes scan the streets through the thick silver helmet, searching for somewhere to provide respite from the unrelenting sun. A cantina of some variety. That’s where the contracts will be, along with some much desired shade. 

However, your mind apparently still remains on a very different track. “So… About breakfast, I saw a bakery back there.” There’s a hopeful note to your voice.

“I’ve already said no. We don’t have time.” It’s a struggle not to sound annoyed. _Seriously?_ The entirety of the Bounty Hunters Guild is on your shared tail, and all you can think about is _puff pastries._

_Kriff._ It’s so damn hot out here.

This time, the annoyance is plain and obvious as it tugs your mouth into a taut line. “Why not? It’s not like we can go anywhere before the ship’s fixed. Finding some contracts can wait for five minutes.”

Irritation surging uncontrollably at your inability to listen to reason, Din rounds on you. Shoulders tensed, gloved hands clenched into fists at his side. “What is wrong with you? We are running for our _lives._ The shorter our stops, the harder it’ll be for them to catch up with us.”

Surprise flits across your brow. As if his snarl had taken you by surprise. Almost as if it had hurt your feelings. The startled expression is covered up instantly as that familiar coldness spreads across your face, chilling your gaze as you regard him distastefully. “Maybe if you had thought about that on Sorgan, we wouldn’t be in the predicament that we currently are. Asking for five minutes to stop and grab some food is suddenly _too much,_ yet three weeks spent fawning over that widow was a perfectly acceptable use of time.” Biting sarcasm drips from your tone. 

A low growl of anger escapes Din’s lips. No words accompany it. He doesn’t have any. Your sneer transforms into a conceited smirk as you realise that a response is not forthcoming. “Yeah,” you say scornfully, all earlier niceties now dropped in favour of annoyance. “I thought that you might not have anything smart to say about that.” 

A light breeze brushes the air. It lifts the hem of your cloak as you turn, fluttering it up and into his visor. He bats it away in barely restrained agitation, narrowed eyes following your form as you flounce away from him. Bitter anger is sour on his tongue. _Damn you, and your kriffing pastries._

Your strides may be quick, but his legs are longer. He catches up quickly enough, drawing level with your side once more. Although your eyes briefly flicker over upon his arrival, no other acknowledgement of his presence leaves your mouth. Instead, you simply mutter something under your breath. He doesn’t manage to catch all of it. Just the last word. _‘Prick.’_ Yeah. He definitely doesn’t like that moniker as much as _‘Mando.’_

Din fights the urge to run a tired hand down the front of his helmet. The combination of the unrelenting heat of Tatooine, the stress of being intently hunted by some of the hardest beings in the galaxy, and the agitation from the argument already has him exhausted. His temper is frayed, snapping.

This dance between the two of you just becomes draining after so long. The constant pattern of one step forward and two steps back. 

He needs this. A job. A _distraction._ Something to consume his thoughts and allow an outlet for all of this pent-up stress weighing down his shoulders.

Your cold voice draws his attention once again. "Separate contracts, I assume? Get as many credits as we can to limit any more unnecessary spending?"

Din is about to disagree, to say that you should stay together. One look at your face has him reconsidering. That earlier annoyance is still very much evident. Your stance screams at your impatience to get away from him, seen in each restless bounce on the soles of your feet.

"Sure," he agrees. "Separate contracts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, Nomad does have temporarily part from Mando's company as next chapter will include... A baby's day out! There needed to be some one-on-one Nomad and Grogu bonding time. Plus if Nomad and Mando were both hunting Fennec Shand there was no way that Calican would have managed to get the drop on them both, so plot consistency dictated that the duo had to be split up for now. And the best way to do that is with a nice angsty argument. :)
> 
> Also, if any of you are ever sick with a headache, sore throat, or blocked nose, let me put you onto something. Warm 7up. I know, it sounds bizarre. But trust me. It's better if it goes flat, but it doesn't have to be. Just pour a mug, stick in into the microwave to warm up a little, and then it's good to drink. It's great for soothing a sore throat and getting some sugar/fluids into you if you feel unwell. Though, just to be clear, it shouldn't be taken too often and shouldn't replace hydrating with water. It's a really Irish thing to do when unwell. 
> 
> I have a number of friends who didn't grow up in Ireland, and they all thought I was really weird when I first suggested it. All of them have since tried it when unwell, and all of them now regularly do it when sick. Google it if you don't believe it's a thing!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very impressed with myself for writing this entire, 6,000+ word chapter in a day. That's not something I can normally accomplish, as sometimes writing is like pulling teeth, but I was in a Mando mood and being in isolation means limited distractions to stop me. I also REALLY wanted to write this piece, so that helped. Apologies, there's almost no Mando in it, but there is a good deal of Grogu, and it was time that Nomad and the child got some quality time together. In all honestly, it's one of my favourite chapters, and shows that softer side that Nomad works so hard to keep hidden. I hope that you guys like it!
> 
> Big shoutout to 'ThxForTheNewKink' who has been going out of her way to let other people know about this story, and for also encouraging me to start cross-posting this on Tumblr. If anyone wants to gain another mutual or give the story some love over there, my username is 'clints-lucky-arrow,' or 'https://www.tumblr.com/blog/clints-lucky-arrow'
> 
> And to all of you who have taken the time to drop comments and kudos on this, thank you very much! You guys are what keeps the motivation for this story going. :) Especially my amazing group of regular commenters. You guys are the absolute best and always so wonderful and lovely. It makes my day when I see your usernames in my inbox, it's like having a friend pop around for a chat again!
> 
> I hope you're all keeping well.
> 
> Songs I listened to while writing this chapter (incase you're interested in playing them too) are listed below. I've put as non-spoilery tags as possible if you are curious to know when I was focused on them, as these chapters all have very different moods in different parts.  
> Yellow Flicker Beat - Lorde (Start of chapter)  
> The Wisp Sings - Winter Aid (when Nomad starts to think about her father)  
> Devil's Playground - The Rigs (Nomad heads out in the evening)

Two cantinas border each side of this Tatooine village, located on nearly direct opposite sides of the small town. With that in mind, a decision is made to split up. The Mandalorian will take the one to the east, and you will visit the one located on the west. Separating is not a concern, especially after a decision has been made to take individual contracts. And in reality, it’s not something that you are feeling particularly despondent over. While you had tried not to let it show at the time, the Mandalorian’s rather abrupt display of hostility _had_ rather taken you by surprise. And that had embarrassed you as well, as you should have known better than to be startled by this turn of events. Especially at this later stage.

He wasn’t your friend. You didn’t have _friends_. Not anymore. The only person who could have ever claimed such a title was long gone. Lost to these very sands. And even before that, it had been quite a while since you'd last seen him. Not since you were both children.

But all the same, the interaction has put you into a bad humour. Especially as things had been going so well these past few days. Not completely smooth, of course. There was still too much tension for that. But they had been far better. You’ve been trying to get along recently, and it is quite irritating to have that attempt thrown back in your face.

_For fuck’s sake, all you’d asked was to go into a bakery for a minute or two._

You shake your head angrily, knocking away the swirling mix of thoughts to focus on what the bar attendant is saying. You’d approached the droid in the dimly lit cantina to enquire into any potential contracts. His robotic voice seems too loud in the quiet bar, and each word only adds to your mounting irritation. “My apologies, ma’am. The Guild no longer operates on Tatooine.”

“That’s fine,” you reply curtly. “I’m looking for something a little more… Under the radar. _Not_ official Guild work.” All that you need would be someone looking at your undoubtedly flagged Guild card and bringing a swarm of hunters down upon Tatooine.

His head rotates stiffly from side to side into a droid’s version of a dismissive shake. “I’m afraid I do not possess any knowledge on any such subjects.”

“Seriously? Not even one?” Your agitated fingers bite into the counter.

The droid continues polishing a glass. “Not even one.”

Pushing yourself away from the counter with a loud sigh, you exit the cantina. There are no shady figures lingering outside to offer whispered enticements into some illegal work. _No._ The New Republic has cracked down hard on law and order in Tatooine. If they’ve gone underground, they’ve gone _deep_ underground. 

Maybe the Mandalorian is having better luck. It’s possible, seeing as he has not come to find you yet. Or maybe, he was just prolonging the time apart. If that's the case, it’s time to burst his happy little bubble. You wind your way back down the barren streets, weaving through one alley that is filled with pikes hosting the severed heads of Stormtroopers, still in their helmets. Dried blood covers each of the sticks, and the buzzing of flies fills the air around. It _stinks._ You’re immeasurably glad for your mask at this point. Sometimes it serves a greater purpose than simply protecting your identity.

Finally reaching the eastern cantina, you duck into the interior. It's refreshingly cool when compared to the outside. The air-conditioning seems to work better here than the place you had gone to first. Your gaze immediately settles upon the Mandalorian. He is standing beside a corner table, and from his stance it is obvious that he has just risen. Another man is just opposite him. The stranger’s head is dipped, gaze intently focused on the Mandalorian. Noticing your arrival over the Mandalorian’s beskar clad shoulder, this other man’s eyes flicker to your face curiously. The Mandalorian turns, having registered his new companion’s distraction. Immediately, the situation becomes clear.

“You got something.” It’s not a question, as you can tell just by looking at him. That strong, determined stance, one hand resting upon the blaster clipped to his waist.

That chrome helmet dips. “Yes.”

A one word answer. He’s still sour from earlier. _Of course._ You choose not to remark on it, instead pressing for more information. “What kind of job?”

This time, it’s not the Mandalorian who answers you. The younger, dark haired guy who accompanies him puffs up his shoulders and speaks the words with pride. “We’re going after Fennec Shand.” He says it with so much confidence that it is instantly amusing.

 _“Fennec Shand?”_ A disbelieving laugh bursts from your lips. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

The younger bounty hunter - for he must be one to be considering pursuing Fennec - arches a brow at you. “Do you know her?”

A shrug briefly lifts your shoulders. “I’ve had some past encounters. Even drank with her a few times. She’s _good.”_ There is an appreciative note to your tone, one that the Mandalorian catches. 

His head tilts as he examines the expression on your face, that low growl emerging from the confines of his helmet. “You’re friends?”

Another wry smile tilts the corners of your mouth upwards. “No. Nobody in our line of work is exactly friends.” You pause abruptly, only realising as the words slipped out what you just said. 

“Assassins, you mean?” the Mandalorian, quick as always, caught both the words and the suddenly nervous furrow of your brow. “Shand is an assassin.”

Your mouth works underneath the mask, trying desperately to come up with a tactful change of topic. But there’s no use. The Mandalorian’s gaze bores into you, intense and unrelenting. Leaving no room for a lie. 

“Yes. Assassins.” The words taste bitter as they leave your mouth. 

A concession that you didn’t want to make. It’s just _one_ secret, but you never know if simply letting a single thing loose will trigger an avalanche of all that you've worked so hard to keep hidden. That’s the last thing that you need.

The other bounty hunter glances at the Mandalorian. His eyes are narrowed distrustfully. They flicker from that shining chrome helmet, back to your watchful gaze. Apprehension is all but radiating from him. Leaning forward, he speaks hushedly to your travel companion, trying to keep his voice low. Your Gawian hearing, courtesy of your matrilineal side, picks it up with ease.

“What if she tries to warn Shand?”

“I won’t,” you reply sharply. His face blanches with the realisation that you overheard, his form stilling as you continue. “I’ve told you. We’re _not_ friends. I don’t care if you kill her. In-fact, I’ll even help.”

“No.” The younger man’s answer comes immediately. “I’m not having someone else involved in this.”

Your head shakes in disapproval. “I don’t want an extra cut, or anything like that. Whatever the Mandalorian has, half of that will be my share. I am offering because - and you need to listen to what I’m telling you - Shand will not go down easily. The more people you have, the better.”

The Mandalorian twists to the other hunter. “She’s making sense, Calican.”

Calican, as he is apparently called, refuses to budge. “Do you think I’m an idiot? The two of you could easily turn on me out there. Leave me in the dunes and take all of the credit for the job. _No._ Not happening.”

That notion hasn’t even crossed your mind. _Yet._ Because, if you are completely honest, if when out there on the sands of Tatooine, that exact idea may have finally cropped up. The kid is smarter than you expected. He certainly doesn’t look it. Going purely on the basis of appearance, you would have put him down as the cute but dumb type. 

“Fine.” You hold up your hands, surrendering. “I’ll get something else.”

Satisfied that his will has been obeyed, Calican nods. He turns to the Mandalorian, full of the false bravado of someone who thinks themselves in charge, and says, “I’ll wait for you outside.”

With that, he’s gone. _Little brat._ You’re happy to see the back of him. Hopefully something will happen to leave him dead in the dunes. Maybe even at the hand of the Mandalorian himself. One can only dream.

Those clinking beskar plates draw your attention as the figure in question steps closer, addressing you stoically. “Look for a job that shouldn't last more than one or two days. We should be ready to leave when the ship is.”

One of your brows raises coolly towards him. “And what happens if you don’t come back?”

He pauses, thinking for a moment. “Then you’re free to get a damn pastry.”

_Sometimes, the bastard does make you laugh._

He turns to leave, but your hand catches his arm, forcing him to pause. It was totally accidental. A knee jerk reaction, really. Just like the soft words that tumble unbidden from your lips. “Be careful, Mando.”

That helmet tilts, as if caught off guard. There is a moment of silence, before his head inclines curtly. “You too.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a communicator and presses it into one of your hands. “Keep that on you. I’ll stay in touch.”

With that, he’s gone, sweeping from the bar and into those dusty streets. Your eyes follow the flutter of his cape as it disappears from view. You're not worried. Not _exactly._ But something about being separated makes you slightly nervous. Too much could go wrong, and you're still not entirely certain what you'd do if he didn't come back.

You ask around a little more about contract work. Each time, it’s the same. _The Guild doesn’t operate here anymore. We can’t help. You may need to look elsewhere._ Over and over, until your temper is running high and impatient. Who knew that it would be so hard to get an illegal job in Tatooine. Although, as you once again pass that particular section of town where mounted Stormtrooper heads adorn the tops of pikes, it becomes a little more understandable why people may be a little slower to break the rules around here. 

Morning had shifted into afternoon. You are just about to call quits on the search when it happens.

“If you’re looking to earn some credits, there are other ways than doing some lazy bastard’s dirty work out in the desert.” A voice calls from the nearby alley.

You turn slowly, shoulders tensing in the event of a fight, and eye the newcomer. It’s a delphidian. Male. He is leaning against the wall of one of those dusty white huts, watching you with a gleam in his navy eyes. There is no indicator of an imminent attack from his stance, but still, you turn in a slow circle to scan the surrounding area. Nothing is out of place, and your intuition sparks no warning of other hidden figures about. Finally, you come to face the delphidian once again. Your voice is cold, suspicious. “And what might that be?”

He shrugs, deep blue shoulders rising and falling. “A little bit of gambling. Some simple games of Sabacc.”

“I don’t have any credits,” you respond warily.

His head tilts slightly to the side. “But you do have a _ship.”_

You were about to tell him that it’s not actually yours, but something stops you. _Curiosity. Greed._ The desire to know what exactly he’s offering. “And what do you have?”

His grin is jagged. “The opportunity to win thirty-six thousand credits.” 

_Shit._ Your mind reels. That sum could make your life a hell of a lot easier. Even a small fraction of that would go a long way. 

Catching your interest, the delphidian’s face gleams. “Have I piqued your interest?”

“Maybe,” is your still wary answer. “What would it entail?”

“A couple of games over the course of a single night. _Tonight._ If interested, meet me back here at seven.”

You nod slowly, mulling it over. “I’ll consider it.” 

With another malicious smile, the stranger turns on his heel. Your eyes track him sauntering down the rest of the alley, before turning to the left at the other side. Even after he has vanished from sight, you feel a little uneasy.

It’s definitely shady. There’s no doubt about that. However, your entire life has revolved around sketchy situations like this. But you’re not foolish enough to think that this offer won’t come with more nefarious insinuations. After all, these people are not inviting you there to simply _take_ their money. Undoubtedly there will be some ploy against you, but the reward may just be worth the risk.

Lost in thought, you make your way back to the hangar bay. Dust billows under your footsteps. The streets are easy to navigate. You’ve been to Tatooine on a number of occasions, usually chasing work. Once, to mourn. Maybe you had not been to this exact town, but the villages all seem to follow a similar layout. It doesn’t take long to arrive back at the repair yard.

The mechanic comes to a confused halt as you stride in. “The Mandalorian said that you wouldn’t be back for a day or two.”

Your confident pace does not falter. “I don’t leave until this evening. And I’ll only be away for one night.”

That’s when you notice the kid in her arms. Surprise quirks your brow upward. Noticing your expression even past the hood of your cloak, the woman shrugs. “Little guy came out crying, all alone. I said it to the Mandalorian, and I’ll say it to you. You can’t just leave a kid like that.”

Your mouth purses into a thin line as you struggle not to snap back. Instead of engaging, you simply slip past her and begin to climb the ramp to the Razor Crest’s hold. It’s dark inside, the lights still out from the assault this morning. Your eyes cast around, before fixing on your pack. It’s half hidden under a nearby bench. Stooping, your fingers wrap around the strap and drag it out. 

It’s weight is consistent, reassuring. No one has trifled with it in your absence. Deft hands work to unzip the lining, before reaching in to wrap around the familiar cold cylinder of the flask. A metallic rattle sounds from within as you shake it lightly. _All is in order. It’s safe._ And it’ll stay that way, if you have anything to say about it. You have no intention to lose the Mandalorian’s ship in a game of Sabacc, but better safe than sorry.

“Do you mind if I leave this in your office?” you ask abruptly, turning back to the mechanic. 

“Sure,” she nods, bouncing the kid in her arms. “Doesn’t bother me.”

With a curt smile of thanks, you twist back to zip the bag once more. A noise of protest echoes behind you. A quick glance behind fixes the child. He’s struggling, demanding that the woman place him back onto the ground. You hoist the pack onto your shoulder, trekking back down to place it behind the door of the dirty administration room, before rejoining her amidst the yard. The child is also watching you. You shoot him a brief, distracted smile that he probably can't see behind the mask, and lift your eyes to the fellow adult.

“I’m going to go back into town,” you tell her. “Want to take a look around. Do you mind looking after the kid, uhm…?” 

“Peli,” she supplies. “The name’s Peli. And yes, I don’t mind.”

“Alright, Peli,” you nod, before briefly pausing. After a second of debate, you extend a hand. “I’m _______.” It’s not bad, as aliases go. A nice name with no connotation to the past. One that you are comfortable giving out. “Appreciate it, thanks.”

She takes your hand, shaking it firmly. You turn to go, when something snags on the leg of your trousers. It’s the child, gazing up at you beseechingly. His little fingers are twisted tightly in the fabric. Stooping, you give him a small pat on the head, figuring he is after some affection. He does not let go. Those eyes continue to implore yours, and suddenly, you know what he’s after.

“No, kid. The Mandalorian will kill me if I take you out of here.” Your attempts to argue do not impact his pleading expression at all. Those little fingers rest against your calf as he stares upwards, and you can feel your resolve slipping under the weight of his huge eyes. “Stop. Back up. I said _no.”_ With an irritated shake of your leg, his hands drop away to his side.

You turn on your heel, shoulders hunched as you make forcefully for the yard’s exit. And then, behind you, comes a small noise that stops you in your tracks. The soft, quiet cry of a child. _The_ child. _Fuck._ Your eyes sink closed, hands tightening into fists at your side as you will yourself to ignore his upset and continue on. But you don’t. _Can’t_. As always, you are unable to turn away from any iota of affection offered. It’s pathetic and ridiculous, but it’s inevitable.

Peli has lifted the child into her arms, comforting him softly as you twist back around. The infant’s ears are drooping, mouth burrowed downward in an expression of hurt and dismay. Your feet shift before you can stop them, padding back across the ground the mechanic and crying child. With gentle hands, you lift him from your grip and settle him against your chest. The crying stops almost instantly, replaced by loud hiccups that wrack his small frame as he fights to calm himself. You can see your reflection in his large, soulful gaze.

“Fine.” The words are part amused and part irritated as they leave your lips. “You win, bug.”

A victorious grin splits his wrinkled face. Your head shakes in pointed exasperation. It takes another minute to retrieve the satchel that the Mandalorian sometimes uses to carry him around. It’s in the ship, up in the cockpit. Once you have it looped around your shoulder and the kid safely inside, you set out with a nod of goodbye to Peli. “I’ll be back in two or three hours.” And then, your eyes fall to the child staring up at you. “Well, kid. Feel like some pastries?”

***

  
  


“Which one do you want?” you ask, lifting him up to get a closer look at the treats on offer. He hesitates, before motioning to the same one that you had just selected. A wry chuckle leaves your lips. “Excellent choice.” Your gaze lifts to the cerean behind the counter. “Two apricot twists.”

The woman dips her elongated, conical head in response, and does as asked. A paper bag is pressed into your hands. The exterior is already stained with faint lines of grease from the items within. You try not to think about that. This is Tatooine, after all. It would have been foolish to expect master quality goods. Still, it’s a slight let down. Hopefully they still taste alright. Apricot twists hold a special place in your heart, something that the Mandalorian had failed to grasp during the argument earlier.

You pay, using the remaining cents that you have left to your name to afford the two pieces of dough and fruit. _One for you, and one for the kid._ He makes a motion to snatch the bag as you start to walk away, but you hold it further out of his reach. “Not just yet. Let’s find somewhere to enjoy them first.”

The child’s arms retract obediently as he watches you trustingly. The expression brings a lump to your throat. You try not to let it show. Instead, you busy yourself with trying to find somewhere to sit and relax as you eat. Unfortunately, the only bench in sight is directly beside the group of severed Stormtrooper heads, so you decide to look elsewhere. As you pass the spot, your hand falls over the kid’s eyes. He tries to shrug your fingers away, but you only allow him to succeed once clear of the gruesome massacre. He doesn’t need the nightmares.

You wander through those dirty streets for a while, but can’t find any other place. Spinning on your heel, your eyes scour the nearby buildings. It settles on one. A little larger than the surrounding ones. Dome shaped roof. Enough clutter nearby to provide a relatively easy climb. And it looks out directly over the desert. _Perfect._ Your gaze drops to the kid. “I hope that you’re not scared of heights.”

He gurgles, which you assume to mean ‘no.’ Making sure he is securely in the satchel, you briefly pause to tighten the strap, drawing it taut against your chest. This way, it will not swing wildly when you are making your way upward. Satisfied, the ascent begins. You are sure to keep as close to the building as possible. Three points of contact to the surface at all times. No one emerges from within the hut to shout at you to get off. 

It doesn’t take long before you are standing on the lip of the roof, only marginally breathless, as the wind tugs at the flat of your cloak and pulls back your hood. Dimly, you are aware of the fact that if the Mandalorian would not have already murdered you for taking the kid out without permission, he would certainly shoot you on the spot if he knew that you had clambered up onto the roof of a building with his infant in your bag. But he’s not here, and hopefully he will never find out. 

Speaking of the kid, he looks excited rather than scared or upset. That little face is stretched in a wide grin as he peers out of the satchel. You return the expression before carefully making your way to the top of the domed roof, fingertips skimming the surface as you carefully mount the final steep incline. 

The flattened top offers a secure place for you both to sit. Carefully, you lift the child out of the satchel, setting him next to you. He obediently sits in the centre, those short stubby legs laid flat before him, eyes flickering between you and the bag of pastries clasped in your right hand. It’s wide enough that there’s no real chance of him toppling from his spot, but you resolve to keep an eye on him all the same. 

Those little fingers brush yours as you lift the first pastry from the bag and pass it to him. Dusk paints the child in a luminous glow, and he squints a little against the bright light, lifting his free hand to protect his eyes. You reach up, undoing the clasp of your mask and tugging it away from your face. Fresh air wraps around your face, a little cooler now in the fading sun, and you sigh contentedly, lifting your face momentarily to drink in some of those softer, waning rays. The child watches you curiously, leaning forward to catch a full view of the unencumbered smile that you direct his way. The pastry stays in his hands, as if he is uncertain on what to do with it. You hold up yours, tearing at one end with your teeth before chewing appreciatively. It’s a little greasier than you’d like, but the apricot is relatively fresh. It’s a nice change from those ration bars all the same.

_The Mandalorian didn’t know what he was missing._

The kid stares down at his own piece of food. You’re suddenly not certain if he’s ever eaten a pastry before. A gentle tap on the shoulder prompts his attention back to you.

“Just start by biting the edge,” you tell him through a mouthful of dough and fruit. “Like this. Simple. It’s like any other food, you just tuck in.”

He watches you take another bite, and then copies the motion cautiously. Those large ears perk a little as he chews, flaring upwards. You laugh, taking it as a positive sign. Together, you turn towards the dunes, and continue to eat in comfortable silence. His small frame remains pressed against your side as you sit, watching both of the Tatooine suns sink lower in the horizon. The sky is streaked with pink and orange, totally magnificent. It colours the sand with a soft reddish hue, and the desert stretches out as far as the eye can see. 

A sudden prod against your ribs captures your attention.

The child holds the last bit of pastry up toward you expectantly. Your brow furrows. It takes a moment to realise what he’s after. When you do, a low groan escapes your lips. “Seriously? Do I have to?”

The pastry waves before your face, a little more insistently. His version of an answer without words. And you can tell by the force in that little arm that he’s not about to relent. _Awfully stubborn, that kid._

With a sigh of disgust and surrender, your fingers pluck the remaining piece of pastry from his. The apricot is sweet against your tongue as you pop it into your mouth. He watches carefully as you chew. As if making sure you’re actually doing it and not just trying to trick him. Eventually satisfied, his little hand waves, and you take that as a signal to spit that mashed up ball of food back into a napkin. His tiny hands seize hold of it greedily, and you shake your head in muted horror as he tucks into the chewed lump of food with even more satisfaction than he had displayed before.

Eventually, a wry chuckle escapes your lips. Once the initial disgust has faded, it’s hard not to feel amused. Leaning back on your hands, you stare up at the deep pink sky. Some birds wheel overhead. The apricot taste is strong, gritted onto your teeth and gums. Sitting here with the child silently next to you, a slow haze of memories begin to cross your mind. From a time long ago, when you had last felt such a sense of peace and comfort in the presence of another. 

_Papa._ Time has somewhat faded your memories of him. Guilt surges as you can’t quite recall the exact structure of his proud face, or the deepness of his smooth voice, or the exact colour of those dark eyes as they watched you with affection. But invigorated by this moment, there are some things that come back hosting more clarity. Dawn breaking amidst the chilly air of your home, rising above the forest. How that cold was held at bay by the blanket around your shoulders, one that smelled of rich cologne and leather like _him,_ and how the warm food clutched in your small hands warded off the bite of the morning. Pain and longing hitch within your chest.

Seeming to sense the change in your demeanour, the child turns. He has finished his food now. As that soulful gaze watches you, something compels you to speak.

“My Papa and I used to watch the sunrise together." Your fingers nervously pick at the flaky napkin between your hands. “We’d wake up early and go to the highest balcony.” It feels strange to talk about him, after so many years avoiding any possible mention of the past. But for some reason, now that you’ve started, you can’t find the will to stop. Years and years of blocking it all out, but now it is all bubbling to the fore. “He’d have the kitchen droids make the pastries before we got up, so that we could eat them warm.” You can only be glad that in this moment it is just you and the child. No one else is here, privy to the suddenly vulnerable shake in your voice. “Apricot was his favourite.”

The child remains silent, watchful. As if encouraging you to keep going. Giving you the time to let it all out. And so you do, away from any prying ears, finally letting yourself feel the agony of his death, and the pain of being so alone in the many years afterwards. “He was away a lot. Those moments when he was home, when it was just the two of us… They were _so_ important to me.” Your voice catches. That tremble becomes almost uncontrollable. “He wasn’t a good man. I _know_ that. He did some awful things, and I've done some terrible things too… But he _was_ a good father. And… I miss him. Everyday.”

Tears trickle down your cheeks. With an embarrassed laugh, one arm lifts to quickly wipe them away. Another falls from the opposite eye almost immediately. Cursing softly, you brush that one away also, silently willing the display of emotion to come to a stop. The kid looks at you with unspoken concern.

“I’m fine, really,” you tell him, waving a hand dismissively. “Sorry. Don’t know why that happened.” The wall is building itself up once again, blocking off those emotions, shielding you from the hurt those memories bring.

Gentle sympathy radiates from the child. A tiny, warm hand, rests comfortingly on your knee. The touch is so kind and loving that it almost breaks the wall, and those damn tears nearly rush to the fore again. You swallow thickly, barely managing to keep your emotions at bay. But you are unable to stop yourself from reaching over, hands encircling the child’s waist as you lift him up, seating him firmly on your lap. He settles back against your chest, fingers soothingly stroking your arm. Your aching heart calms somewhat, comforted by his presence. Resting your chin atop his wispy head, your voice is a low murmur as your eyes softly stare into the sunset. “I’m glad I met you, bug.”

You’re not sure how long you’ll have with him before the inevitable parting comes, but you’ll enjoy each moment while it lasts.

The communicator on your belt crackles. Static fills the line for a few moments, before being replaced by a familiar voice. “Everything alright?” The Mandalorian asks in his even tone. 

The child perks at the sound of his voice, ears jumping upwards once again. You tug him a little closer and pick the communicator off your belt before answering.

“Yeah.” Your gentle response is accompanied by a tiny, contented smile. “Everything’s just fine.”

***

You drop the child back to Peli a few hours later. He is tired, ready for a nap. It’s not as if he had to do anything strenuous. _Stars,_ you’d even chewed some of his damn food for him, but babies can grow exhausted rather easily. The mechanic takes him from you gently, her expression soft as she regards him, and a smile curves your lips. The expression is once again hidden by your mask and so she cannot see, but the woman must catch some softening in your eyes. Her head dips in a tinge of embarrassment.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” you murmur. 

It’s nearly seven. The sun has set, and darkness fills the streets of Tatooine. _Time to go._

The silence in the small village is all too loud. As far as you are aware, there is no curfew in force, let one could have sworn that there is. It is not the kind of silence that prickles your intuition, however, but the weight of the bracers on your arms and the blaster on your hip are still as comforting as ever. Weaving your way through Tatooine, your walk is confident and unhurried. Practically screaming _‘don’t fuck with me.’_ Not that there is anyone around to even try.

You arrive at the spot where you encountered the delphidian earlier. There is no one in sight. Not that you expected there to be. Undoubtedly, he will appear as if from the shadows, having hidden until he is sure that you are alone. That is exactly what happens after a few minutes.

“You came.” He melts out of the darkness, sounding unsurprised.

You do not move from where you lean languidly against the wall, arms folded across your chest. The response from your lips is even, showing no sign of weakness or uncertainty. “It was an attractive offer. But let me assure you, I’m not about to lose my ship.”

Those sharp eyes flash with amusement. “We’ll see about that.”

He turns without another word. Pushing yourself away from the wall, you follow. The delphidian takes you down a variety of twists and turns, and then finally, into a battered and rusty door at the back of what appears to be a disused slaughterhouse. The place looks rickety, standing on rusted pillars, and gives the illusion that it could fall at any moment. You hope it won't. The delphidian's scaled fist pounds against the flimsy metal exterior. The hatch in the frame slides back, a pair of glowing purple eyes peering out. Your companion leans forward, murmuring a password that he thinks you will not be able to overhear.

“Yagbitter.”

The flap snaps closed. With a groan, the door swings inwards. It’s even darker inside than out. The walls are covered in grime, and the air smells stale. It's a rank place, that's for sure. Your nose wrinkles, even under the protection of the mask. Still, there is no hesitation as you step inside. Something sticky coats the ground, gritting your heels. The shouts from below are already ringing through the air, loud guffaws and screams of angered disappointment. You can hear a wheel spinning, and the hiss of a deck of cards being slipped between deft fingers. It’s certainly a gambling hovel. 

The door guard, a green-skinned mirialan with that lilac gaze holds up a hand to stop you from proceeding further. “You’ll need to leave the weapons with me.”

You knew that this was coming, and so your reply is cool. “That’s not going to happen.”

The guard bristles. “If you want to come in, they stay here.” 

From over the rail, you can see the patrons milling around on the basement floor below. _Ah._ Your earlier assumption is now proven right. They have _literally_ gone underground. Silver glints from belts, in a variety of forms. _Blaster hilts. Knives. Shortswords._ All have the same look to them, one of hardened criminals. It reminds you of the days of the Hutts, when Tatooine's lawlessness was a lot more out in the open.

Your hand waves toward the people below as a curt laugh barks from your lips. “Do you think I’m stupid? That I’d really happily surrender my belongings and walk into a place like this unprotected? _Especially_ when everyone else is still armed?"

"You're a stranger," the mirialan replies staunchly, "they're not."

"I don't care," you answer evenly. "My gear comes with me, or else I’m walking out.”

Shock lifts both of their brows. The delphidian who had escorted you here speaks first. “You’d just turn your back on the opportunity for thirty-six thousand credits?”

“Yes,” you reply with a shrug of the shoulders. “I can get by without them for a few more days. Just until I find some other work. Wouldn’t be the first time that I went hungry. But _you,_ you need me. Or shall I say, you need a _ship._ My guess is that yours was seized in the New Republic crack-down. Why else would you have taken the risk to approach me on the street, in broad daylight? So, this all boils down to who’s more desperate here. You, or me.” From conceited tone gracing the words, it is quite clearly projected that it is _not_ you.

They share a look, before your blue-skinned guide relents with a growl. “Fine. Keep the weapons. But you’ll need to hand that over.” The finger points to the communicator hanging from your belt.

You pause, uncertain. The Mandalorian had said to keep it on you. Noting your hesitation, he presses further. “Can’t have you calling for back-up the minute you begin to lose. This one is _non-negotiable,_ sweetheart.”

 _Fuck._ You can see by their hard gazes that they mean what they say. There’s no argument here. Uncertainty wells in your chest, and you suddenly wonder if you should be doing this. _Would it really be so bad just to walk away from all of that money?_ The Mandalorian will undoubtedly come back with enough to scrape by, and you could try for a contract somewhere else.

However, the malfunctioning strobe lights in the underground casino below catch on something. A stack of credits, nearly as tall as you, glinting in the corner of the room. Your indecision throbs, before fading just enough for you to move forward. With a strained grimace, the communicator is pressed into the guard’s waiting hand. _Sorry, Mandalorian._

There may have been more indecision if the communicator was of any true value. It’s not like you’d even be able to get to the Mandalorian in time if he radioed to say that he was in trouble with Shand. And that prick… There’s never been any stopping him. It would take a hell of a lot to bring him down. You were quite certain that he would be fine. He’d probably be done and returned to the shipyard before you slouched back in the morning.

And this… This will be good. With even half the amount of potential credits, you can all get far enough across the galaxy that no one will be able to follow. No more having to stop and take jobs, no more needing to wait for repairs, for you could even just buy a new ship if needed. Unnecessary delays will be cut, and you _all_ can _escape._ It’ll be good for you, and it’ll be good for the kid.

Turning back to the waiting men, you tilt your head, brow arching into a challenge. “Well, gentlemen. Shall we proceed?”

All that's needed now is to play their little game, and to _win._ You know perfectly well that they won't play fair. But that's fine. _Neither will you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just IN-LOVE with the mental image of Nomad and Grogu sitting on the roof, watching the suns set over the desert together. Words cannot describe how much I adored that moment between the two.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter and the next chapter were meant to be one. Which, looking back, was a very ambitious goal. It was too long, so I had to split it, but I threw some Din in here too as otherwise we wouldn't have seen him at all in this chapter. Those scenes in italics happen after the events of the Sabacc game, which Nomad is recounting to him on board the Razor Crest later. Hopefully that makes sense.
> 
> ALSO. There is a lot of Sabacc in this chapter. That's because I wanted to make this chapter as realistic as possible and kind of fun and different, so I learned how to play the damn game. I didn't sit there watching Youtube videos and reading Wookiepedia for ages not to make full use of my random newfound knowledge. And because I had to learn, SO DO YOU. In this house, we do things TOGETHER as a FAMILY. (I'm not saying go learn how to play Sabacc, I'm just saying that this chapter is also somewhat designed to teach you so you can understand what's going on.)
> 
> On a less pretend-aggressive note, thank you for all your well-wishes! I am happy to report that I'm pretty much recovered from COVID. :) As always, your kind words meant a lot and I really appreciated them! Special thanks also to those of you who went on to follow me on Tumblr and help share the Nomad there. I really appreciate the fact that you took the time to show the support! (And please be sure to check out my end note.)
> 
> Songs I listened to when writing this chapter:  
> Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys  
> A Little Wicked - Valerie Broussard  
> Twisted - MISSIO

_“You seem… quiet.” They are the first words to have left his mouth since coming upstairs._

_Almost automatically, your hands tighten against the controls. It’s a visibly nervous gesture. Your mind casts back. The smell of smoke fills your nostrils. Within your chest, your heart rate starts to quicken. Still, your voice stays calm as you answer. “Just tired.”_

_It’s true, but not the whole truth. After all, it’s been well over a day since you’ve slept. Or showered. At least the soot still clinging to your palms helps solidify the grip of your sweating palms. The Razor Crest remains steady on its course, guided by your smooth commands._

_From the corner of your vision, you can see the Mandalorian’s silver helmet tilt towards you. His gaze is keen underneath the tinted glass of his visor. Assessing the tight set of your jaw, the taut pull of your shoulders. You know that he sees through the words, but you don’t expect him to care enough to remark on the lie. It’s a surprise when he does. “It’s not just that. There’s something else.”_

_Your tongue darts out to lick your lips. “Really, Mando. I’m fine.”_

_But you are not. Not completely. And the fact that you feel so conflicted is only serving to agitate you more. Sympathy is not something that one in your position can afford. It all too easily gets one killed. The Mandalorian should know that. He should_ understand, _and just leave you alone for a few hours. Just until you get over it._

_One gloved hand reaches forward, past where you sit in the pilot’s seat, to flick the switch on the dashboard from manual to autopilot. The controls go stiff in your hands as the Crest’s navigation system pulls the vessel slightly to the left. You retract your arms, setting your hands into your lap, trying not to visibly fidget._

_That hand comes to grip the back of your seat, slowly turning it to face him. The gloves don’t go all the way down his fingers, and you can see tanned skin overtaking from where the fabric cuts off. It’s the first time that you’ve ever noticed it before._ Were they always like that, or did you just not care to look? _Your eyes stay to the side of his helmet, purposely fixed on the darkened galaxy outside of the cockpit window._

_The Mandalorian shifts his head, tilting that silver beskar in to block your view. To force you to meet his hidden gaze. In a voice that does not hold as much of its usual bite, he asks, “what happened back on Tatooine?”_

_You hesitate, debating whether to tell him. “I fucked up, Mandalorian. I should have just left it alone."_

_“How?”_

_Your tongue darts out, nervously licking your lips._ Stars. _There’s no telling how he’s going to react to the story. All the same, you have to tell him. “Well. It started when I_ may _have agreed to bet the Razor Crest in a game of Sabacc…”_

***

Two distractions sit on the opposite side of the circular table. One is considerably more pleasant than the other. The former is a blue-skinned chiss with raven black hair, scarlett eyes and a chiseled jaw. His voice is smooth, deep and rich and his body… _Fuck._ You’ve always had a thing for chiss men. Something about their cold demeanour just feels exciting and dangerous. It’s irresistible. Or maybe it’s just your daddy issues coming into play.

 _Stars above._ You likely have a lot of them.

“I’m in,” he says in that smooth tone, placing his set of credits into the game pot at the centre of the table with long, elegant fingers. Even against the pulsating music ringing through the hovel, his voice is clear. Then, with a careful flick, he tosses another coin into the mounting Sabacc pot before sitting back. The fact that he is not going for another card leads you to believe that he has a good hand. You attempt to not visibly melt into your seat by the languid pose of his hard chest. 

That effort is made easier as soon as the second distraction opens its damn mouth. “Me-sa take this.” His stubby fingers clasp the face-up card, a negative five, and then drops two credits into the game pot in payment.

As much as you admire the chiss, gungans, alongside Hutts, are two species that you truly _cannot_ stand. Something about them just prickles your agitation. They anger you to no rational avail. This one is no fucking different. And the stirring irritation is only serving to throw you off your game.

Pursing your lips, you take another look at your own hand. It’s not great. A positive seven, and a negative three. It results in a total of positive four, which is a little too high for you to be comfortable with. This version of Sabacc, known as Corellian Spike, requires the players to have a hand totalling the closest to zero to win the game pot for that round. And if someone pulls a zero… Well, they win the game, and the Sabacc pot.

You had been planning to take the face-up card, which would have brought you down to minus one and offered a chance at winning. Unfortunately, the gungan’s turn came before yours. One of your cards folds slightly until the anxious pressure of your fingers. While you know that you should be restraining your emotions at the table, it’s proving easier said than done. The combinations of this roasting interior, pulsating music, and the fact that you cannot remove your hood or mask to gain some kind of reprieve is making you agitated. Suddenly, you feel a little more sympathetic about the Mandalorian’s earlier bad mood.

The dealer draws a new face-up card, and you watch in nervous anticipation. It’s a positive nine. That won’t help. Not at all. _Fuck._

“Nomad,” another voice calls. The delphidian who brought you here. “Time to choose.”

Beside a small number of scattered coins by his elbow lies a crude drawing of the Razor Crest upon a stained napkin. It’s done in black marker, because that was all that they had available for you to use _Yup._ You’d lost it. _The Mandalorian’s fucking ship._ But there was still time to get it back. Just not with this hand. 

A slow breath leaves your lips as you try to push all distractions aside. You’d been playing Sabacc for _years._ It was a game that you were familiar with, and one that you’d always been good at. This was no different than those many games on the Imperial bases, when yourself and the other assassins would take the ordinary officers for everything that they had. _Good times._

Papa had never been keen on you learning to gamble. He’d always said that there was no dignity or skill involved. But your quick sleight of hand as you reach for the obscured card at the top of the draw pile proves him wrong. When your arm retreats, two cards are gripped instead of just one, hidden from the watchful guise of the others. It’s important to always have options. 

You take a glance at the retracted cards, keeping one barely hidden behind the other. _Okay. This is better. Much better._ One is a negative four. The other is a sylop card, which is valued at exactly zero. It might come in handy later, and with a muted flourish, you drop it down your sleeve. 

When your gaze lifts, everyone at the table is watching you carefully. Worry immediately bubbles inside your chest. _Did they notice?_ You had thought that you were sly enough in the motion. Besides, it’s not like they could be outraged. They were all definitely cheating too.

_No honour amongst thieves. Maybe Papa was right._

“Forgetting something?” the chiss asks.

And then it occurs to you. “Oh. Shit.” Your single credit joins the game pot, payment for taking from the draw deck. Everything has a price in Sabacc. The attention at the table moves on.

Having no other choice, the delphidian has to put the Razor Crest back onto the table. There’s no option to withdraw from the start of a round, though you can fold later. It was a rule that you were informed off earlier on. No doubt to ensure that you didn’t decide to simply never put the ship into the game upon entering. You eye it darkly as the round continues. 

The chiss raises the bet with that smooth, irresistible confidence. He _definitely_ has a good hand. The gungan does too, leading you to believe that he is also fairly assured. You decide to hold, offering the same amount as the gungan but no more. Zero is a solid hand, but there is still another game to play, and you want to see how this plays out before putting everything on the line for a big payout. The delphidian hesitates, before adding two of his measly supply of coins to the pot. The lines of his face are tight in apprehension. You can almost sense nervousness radiating from him. _Good._

You’re going to get that fucking ship back. And even if you don’t, it’s not like you’d just let them take it anyway.

The dices roll. They do not match, and so the hands that you currently posses are kept. Eventually, the betting is called off, after the chiss and the gungan decline to place any more credits. The cards are revealed. Your smile grows wider when the chiss lays down his cards. A total of negative one. At a zero, the advantage is still yours. But then, the damn gungan lays down his cards, and your blood runs cold. His also equal zero. And it’s a negative five, negative three, and a _positive eight_ . His highest value card is one positive point above yours. And that means that he _won_ the fucking round.

“You have to be shitting me,” you growl, fist slamming onto the table in annoyance.

The gungan chortles, leaning forward to scoop his winnings. Your narrowed eyes watch that napkin drag towards his chest. “Better luck-sa next-a time!”

The urge to rip your blaster out and shoot him in that _fucking smug face_ is almost impossible to ignore. But you manage, gripping the table edge tightly as the dealer sets up for the next round. The final round. It all comes down to this. _Shit._ It really hasn’t been your night.

“Easy, darling,” comes that rich timbre. “There’s still one more game.” Your eyes lift to the chiss, reclining on his chair. He’s dressed in dark clothes, though still manages to maintain that perfect poise that they all instinctively have. His scarlett gaze runs down your body appreciatively, and he speaks again. “Where are you from? You look almost… Garwian.”

Your head tilts to the side as you assess the heat in his gaze. “I am. Half.”

That grin grows wider as his tongue darts out across his lips. “Another old blood from the Unknown Realms. Did you know that the chiss and the garwians often mate? The offspring produced are… formidable.”

That draws a bark of laughter from your lips, which you quickly restrain into something a little more coy. “Is that a proposition?”

“Maybe,” he answers. “If it sounds like something agreeable.”

It does. Not the _‘baby’_ part, but just the _‘fucking him’_ part. It’s been a while, and as earlier stated, you’ve always had a thing for the chiss. Judging by his keen interest, it appears that he might have a liking for Garwians too. Or just the prospect of strong children. The chiss are big on the concept of a legacy. 

“Are you two done?” the delphidian growls. _“Disgusting.”_

“Oh, it would be filthy,” the chiss replies with a knowing smirk.

 _Fucking hell._ This man knows how to get a woman riled up. The urge to tug at the collar of your top is hard to ignore. _Stars._ Your throat is suddenly so dry. What you wouldn’t give to just pull off the mask and take a drink. But then they would see your face, so you cannot.

As if to tempt you more, a waitress appears. “A drink, ma’am?” 

Your hand waves the scantily clad hostess away wordlessly. No more temptation is needed, and you’re not entirely trusting that your voice wouldn’t come out as hoarse and breathy if you tried to speak. Across the table, the chiss continues to watch you with fire in his eyes. His gaze is almost like a physical caress upon your skin. _There really should be air-conditioning in here._

The hostess goes to leave, but is stopped by the delphidian’s hand on her waist. In an attempt to distract yourself, you shift closer, attempting to overhear what he whispers in her ear. The pounding music distorts your hearing, and you catch too little to understand what’s going on. 

The delphidian notices your interest, and smiles politely. “Are you sure that you don’t want anything? On the house.”

You simply shake your head, not wanting to engage further. They keep trying to ply you with alcohol. It won’t work. Aside from knowing to keep a clear head (which is proving hard under the heat of the chiss male’s predatory stare), you are not about to take your mask off. Especially not in this place. 

“So, what about that Mandalorian that you came to town with?” the chiss remarks curiously. “Interesting partnership.” You can hear the connotation in his words, the unspoken ask.

“We’re travel companions,” Amusement shakes your head in response. “Nothing more.”

The chiss hums contentedly, before his scarlett eyes flicker to the scaled delphidian beside you. The man in question clears his throat, and chimes in. “I saw him leave with that want-to-be bounty hunter. Off on his quest for Shand, undoubtedly.”

You pause, arching a brow. “That’s common knowledge?” Most people like to keep bounties a secret. Then again, Calican had not struck you as the sharpest novice.

“Oh yeah,” the delphidian replies, sounding _almost_ amused. The waitress returns with a neon green drink atop her silver tray, which your opponent takes readily before continuing. “That kid can’t shut up. Likes to brag about his fancy family in Naboo, how he ran off with a lump of Daddy’s money to go be an adventurer. He’s going to end up dead in the dunes before long, mark my words.”

You’re _quite_ certain that assumption will prove correct.

The next game begins. On this round, the gungan starts. Not because he won previously, but because the starting player rotates to the left in each game. He draws a card, and thankfully decides to remain silent this time around. You eye the glinting stack of credits in-front of him with disdain, particularly focusing on that napkin. It’s your turn to draw next.

A low groan threatens to escape your lips. Two negatives. A nine and a two. 

The chiss and the delphidian take their cards, and the game begins. You trade your negative nine for the face-up positive one card, spending two credits in the process. With a total of negative one, you have a small chance of victory. Let’s just pray that none of your opponents have a zero or positive one total. The delphidian does not touch his deck, which leads you to believe that he has a better hand this time. The chiss trades one of his cards for a face-down individual in the draw pile, and the gungan pays another credit to draw his third card from the same batch. Once he takes a look at his hand, he hums contentedly. 

Betting begins. This time, there is no shying away. You need to up the stakes enough for the Razor Crest to be placed back into the game. The pile of coins to your name rapidly diminishes. There is no more joking around the table now. Everyone is focused on the match that truly matters. Not for the first time, you wonder if all three of them are involved in trying to take the ship from you, working together towards the goal. It’s highly likely. You try not to let it daunt you. 

The dice are cast twice. In the first instance, they do not match, and so the cards do not change. And then, on the second throw, they do. The cards that you all currently have need to be cast aside, and new ones issued. _Fuck._ Panic has started to rise at the back of your throat. It’s becoming more and more of a struggle to maintain the illusion of calm. Your damp fingers peel two cards away from the draw deck, and you slowly sit back in your chair, taking a breath before turning them over. A negative ten. The world spins sickeningly. _Fuck._ Have you really just lost the Mandalorian’s ship? And then your eyes flick to the next card. A sylop. A perfect zero. If only you had two, that would be a winning hand. The best hand that you can draw in Sabacc.

_But wait._

_You do._

The hidden card inside your sleeve digs into the flesh of your arm. You have to hold back a yell of triumph. They must read it on your face. The delphidian exchanges a swift look with the chiss, so quickly that you almost miss it. All the flirtatiousness melts from the latter’s face. The gungan is the only one who does not display any sign of increased animosity. With vigour, you raise the bet each time it comes around to you. The Razor Crest is placed into the game pot once more. You feel like laughing as the betting comes to an end. _It’s time to reveal each of your hands._

The gungan goes first. _Positive two._ Decent, but there’s nothing that he can do to beat what you have. It’s a slam-dunk victory. You follow him, laying the cards down with an obscured victorious smirk, before leaning back into your chair and crossing your arms triumphantly across your chest. The serrated edges of the bracers lightly tease the hardened leather of your attire, catching slightly on the touch fabric. Another pointed look is exchanged between the delphidian and the chiss, before the former lays down his hand. _Positive two._ He won’t beat the gungan, and he certainly will not beat you. It’s just not possible. Pure Sabacc is the best hand in the game. The chiss shouldn’t even bother to lay down his deck, but he does.

You freeze. On the table before him, facing in your direction, are two sylops. But that’s not possible, because there are only _two_ in the game And you have both. _So what the fuck are these?_ As your eyes lift, you are aware of the palpable tension creeping through the room.

“Looks like someone cheated,” the delphidian deadpans, hard gaze on you.

Your head tilts, mind working as you try to rationalise what is happening. It only takes a second. _Of course._ Even if you had won fairly, they were always going to claim that you were cheating. Which you had. _Sure._ But so had they. And they had put an extra two sylop cards into the game to assure victory - likely into the chiss’s very hand - so technically, they had cheated _worse._

“Well played,” you reply, with a tinge of appreciation to your voice. “I can appreciate a good cheat when I see one.”

“Us? _Cheat?”_ The chiss places a hand over his chest in mock-indignation. But his eyes are cold. All earlier friendliness has evaporated, though you think that a _tinge_ of lust still remains. “We’re a respectable establishment.”

Your pointed gaze tracks around the room, from the peeling and moldy walls to the open canisters of gas stocked haphazardly in the corner. The tone of your response is dry and sarcastic. “Sure. You have a really authentic place here.”

He shakes his head, laughing softly. “That sharp mouth will be the end of me. And coincidentally, _you.”_

Your ears prick at the sound of a blaster’s safety being clicked off. The delphidian male beside you has pulled his weapon free from his belt, levelling it at your stomach. _Fuck._ The chiss only watches impassively. Suddenly, you’re pretty sure that you have a good idea of which illusive character runs this place. Your gloved hands raise in slow surrender. Around the room, the other figures begin to turn, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

“You have two choices,” the chiss interjects smoothly. “Get up and walk out of here with your life, and your life _alone,_ or refuse and die.”

“They’re not very fair choices,” you respond coolly. “Seeing as _you_ cheated.”

He opens his mouth, undoubtedly meaning to argue, when someone else joins the conversation. 

“Me-sa knows you both-sa cheated.” The gungan is watching the scene carefully, hands clasped on his lap underneath the table. Judging by the fact that he dared speak up, you rationalise that must not be part of this whole plot. “The lady gave him-sa two cards, and he-sa gave them to _him-sa.”_ His stubby fingers wave from the waitress to the delphidian and then to the chiss. “And she-sa took extra card-sa when drawing. Hid it in sleeve-sa for later.” 

By their stony expression, you know he’s right. _But how the fuck did a damn_ gungan _spot it and not you?_ The answer is easy, though you don’t want to admit it. You were too busy being horny over the handsome chiss. _Stars._ You need to get laid, and soon, before lust starts to fuck up all of your choices.

“Perceptive, aren’t you?” The chiss’s voice holds frost as it is aimed towards the gungan.

The gungan nods in agreement. “Perceptive, yes. And also, me-sa is _real_ winner. Me-sa did not cheat, and me-sa has best number.”

That blaster aimed at your chest wavers. Their attention is slowly being diverted from you, and refocusing on the gungan. You shift, almost imperceivable, hand skirting towards your own weapon. The delphidian catches onto the movement, and that blaster refocuses on your torso. Scowling, your arms lift once more. Across the table, the chiss and gungan continue their cold staredown. 

Onlookers are beginning to shift closer. Guards, with their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Waiting for even the slightest hint of trouble. There are so many, that you’re not entirely sure of the chances of making it out of this one. Tension has drawn tight in the air. Like an elastic band. There can only be so long before it snaps.

The chiss speaks again, each word low and dangerous. “You get the same deal that she does. Walk out of here with nothing or die.”

The gungan tilts his head, like he’s considering it. And then, with a toothy smile, he responds. “No.” In a flash, his hands jerk up from his lap, blaster glinting. And then _the world fucking explodes._

His shot slams straight into the nearest gas canister, and it bursts with the force of a _bomb._ You are thrown back, pitched onto the ground as startled screams fill the air. The breath is knocked from your lungs for a moment, and all you can do is writhe there, struggling to breathe. Red flashes illuminate the air above your head. The blaster fire is distant, as if coming from the other end of a tunnel, but that rational part of your mind knows that it’s coming from _right next to you_ and you are in _immediate danger._ Your ears are ringing. Must have been with the force of the explosion.

Retching violently, you twist, managing to get your hands underneath you to stagger upright. Heat prickles your skin. Not the uncomfortable warmth of earlier. _No._ It’s different. A parching, itching sensation that you recognise immediately. Orange catches in the corner of your vision, a glare so bright that you can hardly look at it. Your hands are covered in dirt and you can taste sour ashes in your mouth. An uncontrollable coughing fit rakes your chest as fumes catch in your throat, wrapping around and stinging your eyes. _Fire._

The flames are tall, licking up past the basement pit that to the ground level upstairs. People are clambering over one another, rushing for the stairs. They are caught there in the crowd, a pack of struggling, vying bodies, unable to move as they are so jammed together. Blaster fire echoes through the space, flashes of scarlet blurring your vision as smoke causes your eyes to water. 

Another explosion shakes the basement as the flames reach another canister, sending you wheeling to the side. The foundations of the stairs, weakened by the blast and the weight of so many bodies, gives way abruptly, sending the crowd crashing onto the ground. Howls of pain and fear are barely audible over the harsh splintering. Dust billows into the air, polluting it further.

Backed into a corner, your fingers scramble for your blaster as harsh red shots pound into the wall at your back, tracing your silhouette. You return fire into the smoking darkness. The lights overhead are cracking and bursting in the heat, even though the dancefloor underneath you still pulsates in a flashing strobe. Sparks rain down upon you as the fire looms ever closer.

Your breaths are coming in short, panicked spurts. It’s not often that you are truly caught off guard, but you hadn’t expected a _fucking gungan_ to blow up this hovel to pieces. Then again, if he was here amongst hardened criminals, he may not have been as useless and naive as you’d initially decided he’d be.

Your eyes adjust to the darkness. There are figures shifting at the other side of the floor, shooting wildly. It is apparent that no one longer cares if they are aiming at friend or foe. True panic has set in, and it does not leave room for rational thought. Your gaze fixes on an overturned gambling table. Another shot slams into the wall behind, singing the top of your shoulder. _Time to move._ Glass shards cut into your palms as you hurl yourself behind the cover of the thick table, leaning out to return fire at those dark shapes. On the ground is the torn napkin, the black ink of the crudely drawn Razor Crest leaking. You stuff it into your pocket.

A whistle from somewhere nearby catches your attention. It’s the gungan, crouched behind an fallen sofa. He’s in a similar predicament. Trapped, with nowhere to go. One of your arms jerks toward him, aiming the blaster at his head. The other braces against the table, and the wood jars your shoulder as heavy shots slam into the other side with painful intensity.

“What do you want?” you snarl, panic written all over your features.

“Truce?” he enquires. “You-sa and me-sa, working together. Get out here.”

It’s tempting. Your head shakes in indecision, but the flames are creeping even closer. The smoke in the air is getting thicker. There’s not much time to debate things. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

He shrugs, oddly unperturbed given the circumstance. “Me-sa do not cheat.”

It’s as good a reason as any. Frankly, you probably would have accepted the offer regardless of his answer. Desperate times, and all. _Stars_. You were such a fucking moron for thinking that this would _ever_ go well. 

“Okay,” your head dips in a curt nod. “Do you know if there’s another exit? There has to be somewhere.”

“Yes,” he replies, “but _look.”_

Your head turns to where he has pointed. There is indeed another corridor at the opposite end of the room. Only issue is that the entrance is covered by a roaring flame. A low curse slips from your lips, just as an awful grating sound comes from above. Your horrified eyes turn upwards. The fucking roof is starting to cave in. You can see the sky above, glinting with the azure of the morning. 

Such a nice, relaxing color that is in direct opposition to the fiery chaos welling in this underground pit. 

Metal tiles shatter into the ground, cracking the floor. Another crescendo of screams rise, until you want to clamp your hands over your ears to block them out. The gungan yells for you to follow him. Without a second thought, you do. Bullets thud into the ground, snapping at your heels, but there was less than before. Most have bolted, pulling their coats and jackets over their faces as they rush through the flames covering that corridor in a desperate attempt to escape. Some did not make it, and the smell of charring flesh perforates your mask and swells in the suffocating air. Everyone else mills wildly at the bottom of the collapsed staircase, scrabbling to get up. Some have made it, clambering to safety, but a few remain below, trapped within the throng. 

Something catches your eye. The chiss male looms from the smoke, rushing at you with a sword in his hand. You react just in time, blocking his sharp blow with the length of your forearms. This blade catches on the serrated points of the bracers. He grunts at the collision, shoving you back to break the hold before slashing at your neck. Head tipping back, the cut of his blade crosses the air above your face as you duck underneath the swipe. The sudden motion knocks back your hood as you straighten. With a cry of determination, your fist flies into his stomach at the same moment that the hidden blades erupt from the top of your gauntlets, spearing through the flesh of his gut. Handsome face widening in a mixture of surprise and horror, his legs give out as you rip your weapon free. 

_It’s a shame. He really was hot._

Someone else gives charge from the shadows. The delphidian. You drop down, preparing to engage, but a blaster shot collides with his chest and knocks him back. The gungan is behind you, smoking weapon in hand. _Well, at least he was truthful, if not a bit of a sadistic mass-murderer._ Head dipping in thanks, you rush over to him. The ceiling groans loudly, raining more dirt and debris onto your head and down your face.

Those googly eyes assess you carefully. “If me-sa boost you up, you-sa _will_ pull me up after?” His tone demands an answer.

Your words are genuinely truthful. “Cross my heart.”

The sincerity apparent, he believes you. Stooping, those misshapen fingers link. Retracting your blades, one of your hands comes to perch on his shoulder as you step into his hold, other hand tracing up the wall. Arms bunching, he propels you upwards with a sharp grunt. Your fingers latch onto the lip of the floor above. Pain pricks your palms as shards of broken glass and dirt threaten to tear through the skin, but you do not give up. Your teeth grit in determination. The gungen’s hands wrap around your feet, pushing you up further. Getting the angle at last, you are able to pull yourself the rest of the way, arms screaming in protest.

_Reminder to self: Install pull-up bars on the Razor Crest incase a situation like this ever arises again._

There is no time to catch your breath once on top. On your hands and knees, you reach back down for the gungan. He has to take a running jump to reach your waving arm, but he makes it. For a being so long and thin, the bastard is heavy. It’s difficult to pull him up, especially with your grip slippery with sweat, but you manage. He reaches out, taking hold of the remainder of a railing to pull himself onto the floor. You fall back, chest heaving. More sheets of metal fall from the ceiling, crashing onto the floor below. 

There are only a few people left now, as many have found one way or another to flee the scene. You are about to push yourself off the ground, following the gungan as he rushes for the door, when a cry from the basement level stops you. It's a desperate pleading. The waitress from earlier is down there, tear-streaked face illuminated by the daylight filtering into the pit. Her exposed areas of skin are covered in soot. The gungan yells back at you to forget her and run. You almost do. Until her words burn through your ears.

“Please. I have a daughter.”

And so, you drop down and extend your hand. It makes no sense. She had helped those gang members try to cheat you out of the damn ship earlier. But you just have a fucking soft spot for kids, and can’t bring yourself to let another child go parentless. If only the damn woman could reach your extended hand. 

A crash from the side draws your attention. The gungan is on the ground, a jagged piece of metal speared through his chest. The prick had almost made it out the door, only to be stopped at the last second by the falling debris. Looking around at all the chaos he caused, you can’t help but think that he may have deserved it. Shrugging off the image of his bleeding body, your attention turns back to your hand and the woman below, trying to ignore the burning bodies in the pit with her. Some are still alive. _Howling. Wailing. Begging for an end._ It’s sickening.

You’re not opposed to death or killing. _Stars above,_ you’ve done enough of it yourself. This destruction, though… It just seems like _too_ much. It’s not like killing enemy hunters or raiders. Most of these people are civilians. Bar staff. People just trying to make a living in this shithole place. And _this_ is what they get for it. It just… doesn’t feel _right_. 

But seriously, if this damn woman doesn’t hurry up, you’re still going to run out of there _without_ her.

“Fuck!” The exclamation bursts from your lips as she misses your hand for the third time. The roof is sloping towards now, sharpened metal edges angling toward the inside of the pit. Any second, it’s all going to snap. By some miracle, she latches onto your grip the fifth time. You laboriously pull her up, dragging her to the relative safety of the landing. And then you are running, as the roof finally holds true to its promise and shatters. 

You make it out just as the building collapses in on itself. The sound it makes is _awful._ Ear-splitting. A cloud of dust and sand lifts into the air, washing over you as your arm lifts to shield your eyes. _Whelp. That’s the damn communicator gone too._

The woman staggers away, trembling profusely. Her arms wrap around herself, as if trying to hold her shaking body together. You see her throat bob as she swallows, facing you once more. There is fear in her eyes. 

“Go,” she urges, stepping forward to press something into your hands. It’s credits. Far less than thirty-six thousand, but more than you expected. “They’ll be too disorganised to come for your ship now, but the New Republic will likely be on their way. They’ll want to know what went on here. Get away from Tatooine quickly.”

And so, you do.

***

_Silence. And then. “So… You bet my ship in a game of Sabacc?”_

_Mouth setting into a thin line, you fix him with a glare as your arms cross defensively over your chest. “Really? That’s all that you took from this. Not the fact that I had a building come down on me?”_

_It’s a struggle to keep your tone calm. As much as you wanted to pretend that the experience has left you unbothered, the truth is harder to conceal. In reality, you’d been scared shitless. And as someone who is usually too stubborn to feel fear, that is terrifying._

_Just another sign of your apparently ever-growing emotional vulnerability._ Feelings get you killed. _That's what you need to remember._

_The Mandalorian shifts in his seat slightly, and speaks again. “Just trying to get all of the facts straight.” There is no tangible glean of emotion to his flat tone, as if he is reserving his judgement for now. Or maybe he can see your discomfort, and has decided to rein in his anger momentarily. Unlikely. He’s never given a shit about your feelings._

_Your eyes pointedly roll skyward, the discomfort in your chest forcing you to avert your gaze elsewhere for a few seconds. “Fine._ Yes. _I betted your ship in a game of Corellian Spike. But they were offering_ thirty-six thousand _credits. And I wasn’t about to let them take it, anyhow. The damn gungan just reacted before I could think of a plan.”_

_There is a slight pause as the Mandalorian absorbs the rare conciliation in your voice. “I see. How many credits did you get in the end?”_

_Biting your lip anxiously, your gaze briefly averts from his helmet once again. “... A little under two thousand.” Still, it’s more than nothing. Which is exactly what he had brought back._

_The Mandalorian does not seem satisfied. “Couldn’t have snatched anymore as you were leaving?” That chrome head shakes in wordless disapproval. Undoubtedly, his mouth would be set into a line underneath that helmet. Critical as always._

_Your temper surges in response. “A building collapsed on top of me. What was I meant to do? Hold it up with one hand and root around for coin with the other? Ask it to wait a few seconds?”_

_That earns a dry chuckle from the depths of his helmet. Unexpected. He pauses briefly, before enquiring again. “And Calican?” There’s a shift to his voice now. You can tell that it’s an uncomfortable topic for him to broach. Undoubtedly, he is still feeling a little shamed. The urge to tease him rises once again, but you push it down._ Be the bigger person. _Even if he’s been making a really obnoxious effort to point out all your earlier mistakes._

_But what happened to Calican… That was not a mistake. Nor did you regret it. Your shoulders rise and fall in a wry shrug, languid under his heavy gaze. “I dealt with it. Nothing more to be said.”_

_He pauses, elbows braced against his knees as he leans in, capturing your gaze. Your eyes are drawn to his as your arms fold defensively across your chest, expecting another form of admonishment. Instead, he surprises you with hesitant words. “Nomad… Thank you. For handling it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm... What happened with Nomad and Calican? You'll find out next chapter!
> 
> Out of curiosity, if I was to write for another Star War's character, which one would you guys like to see? I've ideas for an Obi-Wan longfic, a Poe Dameron longfic, or a short multi-chaptered fic on General Hux. All with morally grey Reader characters, because I love badass women.
> 
> And a big shout-out this time to @star-hoes on Tumblr! She writes a lot of amazing Star Wars content, so please go and check out her blog and show some love! It comes highly recommended. :) (And as a total Obi-Wan simp, I recommend her oneshot "why the hell is there glitter everywhere?")


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